Poems January 2019
Turner’s buoy
Distant scud of cloud, burst popcorn
or crumpled like sheep, the day jabbed in
like an afterthought. So much depended
on the sound unheard, shouts buried in fog,
indistinct as deaths telegraphed
along the old Atlantic cables. Sight,
though unreliable, narrated well enough.
That might have been called progress.
The sun bore the weight of revelation,
the masses gathered—whether a new mob
or cumulus nimbus remained to be seen.
Up the street marched the red flag.
A Message from the Editors
Support our crucial work and join us in strengthening the bonds of civilization.
Your donation sustains our efforts to inspire joyous rediscoveries.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 37 Number 5, on page 33
Copyright © 2023 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2019/1/turners-buoy