Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Hour by Reginald Gibbons


Hour

Sleepless 
in the cold dark, 
I look 
through the closed dim 
door be- 
fore me, which be- 
comes an 
abyss into 
which my 
memories have 
fallen 
past laughter or 
horror, 
passion or hard 
work—my 
memories of 
our past 
laughter, horror, 
passion, 
hard work. An ache 
of be- 
ing. An ache of 
being, 
over love. An 
ache of 
being over 
love. Like 
projections on 
the screen 
of the heavy 
window 
curtains, flashing 
lights of 
a slow-scraping 
after- 
midnight snowplow 
for a 
moment pulse in 
this room.

 

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