Thursday, August 26, 2010

The Solitudes of August - VIII


He reads John Cheever stories on the Housatonic
through the long and sultry afternoons,
And listens to the Vienna Philharmonic
in an old gazebo by a lightbulb moon
But he never once escapes himself,
in all his flying through the mists
To the tops of gothic towers
and their unattainable scripts.
It stirs him to see there are such secrets still revealed
but a wearied understanding is too hard.

A small man with a large heart
that glubs among the stratospheres
He finds himself too far away
for vapor trails to show.
The silver dust that falls on Earth
to shine must hollow be.
The howlings one can sometimes see
are not there to be known.

1 comment:

Hannah Stephenson said...

"Glub" is the best verb for a heart :).