Monday, 29 November 2010


No nightingales find me here,
No shadows fall, because,
quite simply,
No light shines
and I sit,
and shapeless, even,
but strong and
given to stronger
words and dreams of
the kind they once
built empires over,
and on top of, and,
perhaps - though
I can think of no
examples now -
those dreams like some
overhanging marble temple
before those marbles
got waylaid or
calmly liberated
someplace else in
which they find
no more praise
than can exist within
the stapled glossy guide
of some museum
or other
and I sit in the
dark and the silence
and smile, and
try to tally the number of
those before me who've done the same
and held the same thoughts and
sought the same
night-bird song,
before I give
that up and
just plain enjoy the
moment, and accept
beyond those further
that it is mine alone,
and claim it, eagerly,
just by fitting it in
Sunday-night-best words.

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