Thursday, April 07, 2005

Poem: The Coming Night

What shifting, what scuddling,
peeping, muffle sounded and
slow doom--
These rats inside the walls,

hungry like winds and eroding us
to silent and pale sepulchre
dwellers in the coming night.

No comments:

Call the Hammers of the Whirlwind

What tears away like insect wings inside the whirlwind and peels like lead between the cylinder and the forcing cone as the pow...