Poems February 2017
Temporarily eternal
No more books or music
for tonight,
and nothing new
online, nothing to clean
or cook or suffer through.
Just sighs between
the minutes as this white
typhoon of moonlight
tries to shake the room
and all that’s right
within it. The clock face
wears a sheen
of secrecy so rich
I start to lean
into the breeze
each second makes in flight.
In other words,
I let the evening whet
my tired shoulders
voluntarily.
I feel the hours spill,
and carefully
remove my watch
along with all its debts.
It isn’t like me
to be still, and yet
I’m still: eternal,
temporarily.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 35 Number 6, on page 30
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