In the long starless days
in the bitter configurations of clouds
it's what I most want to hear. Him, beside me.
Lights not out: lights not ever turned on
as the weak white sky dims, gas lantern, last
vapor, mantle fade-away. And he is near me now:
in hand. And loves, if in books I may be so foolish
as to say it. We look at each other: look. Two minds
one wave that never breaks--never!--or,
if it breaks we accede, we break, go down in its roar.
Bound. In this acrid desperation. My eye, bound to the page:
I who never read last lines, lest I go blind.

Gerald Fleming
Contents | Mudlark No. 3
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