No more books or music
for tonight,

and nothing new
online, nothing to clean

or cook or suffer through.
Just sighs between

the minutes as this white
typhoon of moonlight

tries to shake the room
and all that’s right

within it. The clock face
wears a sheen

of secrecy so rich
I start to lean

into the breeze
each second makes in flight.

In other words,
I let the evening whet

my tired shoulders

I feel the hours spill,
and carefully

remove my watch
along with all its debts.

It isn’t like me
to be still, and yet

I’m still: eternal,

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 35 Number 6, on page 30
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