The letter lies unanswered, thus free of lies.
The light all day has travelled the crowded pages,
Shifting the shadows, changing the hue of ink.
The truths, if truths there are, are stationary.
Now night comes on, from your time zone to mine.
The moon is tentative, not wholly herself,
And the owl bells, and the owl’s mate bells back,
A dialogue of sorts, question and answer,
The answer being but the question asked.
East of your sleep, deep in the zodiac,
Tomorrow is already chronicled.
Oh, I shall write you what you want to hear.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 3 Number 5, on page 34
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