What Twighlight Yields
My room is a cultured wreck.
Unread volumes of Dylan Thomas nudged
in the clutch of the collapsed desk.
On a nightstand,
Billy Pilgrim’s one sock
Blends in purple as it rests
under Rumi’s barrels of wine.
My books are strewn about,
the floor,
chairs,
stools,
drawers,
my bureau,
my back pack hung,
the shelf in the closet,
there are instances of war on each level,
Documented, making an 8 ft tall tank of water
Where I get lonely and hold my breathe to know what it is
like for the victims and to show minimally a mongrel respect for the dead.
Dying children and soldiers walk the tragedy
of the unread book.
The red volume
bought used,
sits wedged.
It’s in a sea storm.
It’s stuck in a gall.
I think of all the words said by the living,
All of the types,
Some who haven’t heard and don’t care
for such a book.
Tonight will be very busy.
I remember from its bindings just this:
Do not go Gentle.
