12-07-2025, 06:29 AM
The Gloaming
Before the statement of the sun,
considerations twinkle in milky dreams:
a darkness spoiled by light
is the rest a body needs.
How can I answer,
when the idiot questioning is
me and within me?
I've to go through all the hoops
of a microcosm, while stars
twenty years less dim
orbit the very planet I crave?
Though to enter me would be
to burn the world you know:
every finished poem is like asking Matilda
for a date. Does night ask permission
to be lightened?
Seems to me it wouldn't.
Never have I ever,
until the earth itself
grew wobbly, and the mainstay
: the splendid mercury of chance :
was burdened off by the very tower
where scholar sings and damsel
erects the moat-lit mane.
How do I know?—Knowledge
bewails consent. To presage is to saw
the very hand that declaims to hold.
The night I seek is where I stall.
An autumn stroll, a coated hill with wintry-
needly scent. The romance prerecorded
from the holy almanac.
Sent wisdom is my default
outlawing present understanding:
I can see in the dark, and that gift
prefabricates nothing: muscling freedom
like a wild dog rabid with youth
while sallying for papier moons.
That selfsame moon—that all lovers
feel: already set. As the sky, where my vision
has no space, awakens wide awake, with eyes,
(both opens and closes) staring . . .
I pay no taxes. Marry nor die.
Before the statement of the sun,
considerations twinkle in milky dreams:
a darkness spoiled by light
is the rest a body needs.
How can I answer,
when the idiot questioning is
me and within me?
I've to go through all the hoops
of a microcosm, while stars
twenty years less dim
orbit the very planet I crave?
Though to enter me would be
to burn the world you know:
every finished poem is like asking Matilda
for a date. Does night ask permission
to be lightened?
Seems to me it wouldn't.
Never have I ever,
until the earth itself
grew wobbly, and the mainstay
: the splendid mercury of chance :
was burdened off by the very tower
where scholar sings and damsel
erects the moat-lit mane.
How do I know?—Knowledge
bewails consent. To presage is to saw
the very hand that declaims to hold.
The night I seek is where I stall.
An autumn stroll, a coated hill with wintry-
needly scent. The romance prerecorded
from the holy almanac.
Sent wisdom is my default
outlawing present understanding:
I can see in the dark, and that gift
prefabricates nothing: muscling freedom
like a wild dog rabid with youth
while sallying for papier moons.
That selfsame moon—that all lovers
feel: already set. As the sky, where my vision
has no space, awakens wide awake, with eyes,
(both opens and closes) staring . . .
I pay no taxes. Marry nor die.