MOURNING AND THE MOON
This night is tedious.
I turn the pages of a book,
but quit after a brief look.
As the hours slowly pass,
moonlight drifts by my window,
serene and leisurely.
I think of words for a poem,
but they’re merely
cerebral acrobatics.
They have no relationship
to any kind of reality.
Life and death are
all around me.
Where can I escape?
I hide in obscure words.
That’s what poetry does for me.
تعليقات