“How Late, How Far”
a new poem
How Late, How Far
Not alone, aloft in a poem:
the line rising
from my cramped hand.
Night anchors the room
in barbed quiet
(frog song, sporadic traffic)
but the poem sustains
an inmost silence.
Dawn bruises darkness;
the lamp’s yellow ring recedes.
And the room, like my hand,
released.
This brings back memories of staying up all night, writing, and finally looking up to see that lamps were no longer needed. Beautiful. PS: My mother has that same desk, but with small drawers on each side of the door. I used to hide things in that nook there.
Joseph, you have single-handedly taught me to love poetry. I’d like to give Jarvis a little credit but it was all you.