Mack Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Night Class
The
moonless night presents a nothingness,
As
flickering cones of yellow light pursuePale wraiths and shadows through the conifers.
The radio hisses in its loneliness,
While miles and hours in meditation pass;
The coffee cup from several towns ago
Is empty now; its caffeine promises
Have faded like a statesman’s solemn vows
While Byron, Shelley, and Keats, in repose
Between the covers of a Moby Book,
Await those even later, owlish hours,
Then to renew their pleynts against the past.
No comments:
Post a Comment