Here And Now
The clock rather tentatively spells Three,
And the sun lustily licks the remnants of darkness,
As your city lazily inches towards morning.
In some other sphere of being. Remote.
Half-lying, I read about your icicle.
I try to imagine an icicle, rolling the word
Over and over on my tongue. As if, to spell it
Would be to feel its chill spreading in the semi dark.
The chill of a water burial, the way you put it.
Clad in your usual loftiness. And homespun metaphors.
My ill lit room and the musty mothball smell permeates;
As the immediate pales the thralls of the faraway.
And only a stray sunbeam, wantonly
Defying the inhibitions of the drapery, fills my vision.