(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849 / Boston)


Ditches. I dig them
to find dust in eyelids.
Minute worlds we breathe,
there is no other way to touch the soul
but to dig within
the realms
still invading my dreams.

In another dream, I was
waking up, wiping the sleep
from my eyes full of the images
of small dogs becoming ribbons of highway.
Brightly, under the dark dunes I have dug-
the slow relief of a tombstone sea,
insurmountable psyches.

I look above them, their dried bones-
I am not yet dead,
though I wander through
with a walking stick

In a dusty wind, the slight song
of red leaves rehearsing
the arrival of snow
leaves me perplexed.

Moon, drawing night to a close
The early light scurries timidly
with the scurry of rats
and my melancholy aches.

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Comments (3)

.., , a divine write, and beautifully composed ★
Poe is one of the greats..he weaves and.paints such pictures.
How is this poem not in the top 500?