Poetry

Nocturne; A Premonition

Nocturne

That night we sat in Adirondack chairs and saw the lake turn black.

We couldn’t see our hands.

It felt as if we’d both gone blind

or gone our separate ways—

nirvana, breathing out,

a whirlpool whirling down—

almost a welcoming—

until the fireflies emerged

with microscopic power surges

and microscopic failures

looking for things to eat

extracting us, as children do,

from games we play

with darkness and with death.

A Premonition

The weather changes

and the heart keeps time

as best it can

and when we wake

the things we dreamt about

trot off ahead of us

like wolves on frozen tracks.

  

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