Thursday, October 16, 2008

Poem for the Night

1842: Letters From Prison

The window is cracked,
as if the ghosts were trying to escape
this choleric box.
They slip down to Germantown Avenue
to drink and dance,
and run the night.
I might have come,
if I hadn't been poisoned by
this thick night.
No ducts in the ceiling.
No chisel in the cake
(no cake).
Just a quiet visit
from resident shadows--
this borrowed cell.
Nails on stone,
a quiet crescendo
meant for sympathetic ears,
unused kindness
about to expire.

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