Poems October 2022
Dusk
The wasp on the kitchen table
posed as a murdered lord. Shadows
cast like beach towels on the roses,
tinge of ochre leaking along the walks—
all that is going never returns,
returning only as the vanished do,
whiff of spent perfume rising
from the forgotten, a lost name,
a glance that leads to nothing, nothing.
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 41 Number 2, on page 35
Copyright © 2023 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2022/10/dusk