Sunday, September 29, 2013
Sunday Night Poetry
WHO WALKS ALL NIGHT IN THE NEXT ROOM
One solid day of rain made by a hole
in a scarf of clouds,
my father comes to the old clapboard
house, he climbs the stairs.
Bridegroom looking for
his waning bride; gowned, she
asks him in, to see tapestries
her heart's ruined walls,
and the blurring that time
ends in her singular bed.
She speaks to him in a brief madness
Under the roof's cavern, a rested dread.
The aunts sit in black, two by two
in candled room
and laced up shoes, the keening
hour shades my father's eyes
a linened window to garden
chair and table, the leaning grass.