Poetry and Poetics
At last, long past sunset, the day’s work done,
piling scraps of his mind into the easy chair’s lap,
he sets his gaze adrift upon a pool of lamplight—
too bright, so he flicks the switch. The sudden dark
turns him to a stranger in the house, in his body:
a hushed namelessness. A breath or two later,
he feels called—and looks out the night window.
Above the snowy westward mountain, against
a field of stars like grain sprayed down in a mill,
the moon rides full and high: its icy radiance bathes
the mountain, making its massive solitude shine.
The lesser peaks break like waves at its feet.
© by Joseph
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