Even on days like this, when noon
shines an apathetic twilight,
there are some illusory escapes.
The usual noise of traffic is drowned
in the tires' sudden spashing. Waves
lap at the curb, and I could almost
feel myself upon some peaceful shore,
then not, then there again, a slightly
slower rhythm than the thunder-
punctuated rain. Preserve
me from such hopes as those that fly
from this bleak box.
The leaves, long dry,
are drenched. Too late. They won't grow green
again. There is no return,
except perhaps the long way through
decay, and then beyond the winter,
moment piled on moment, end
on end. O, for courage to attend
to the damp gray road that leads to home.
A sonnet for St. Benedict
5 days ago