Issue 94, Winter 1984
The Bells of Saint Simon
I sail into the crooked gloom
and steer to bed beneath the shining tent
of paint we are experimenting with
and lay this poor drunkard down.
Our town’s asleep —
wet wires and frozen glittering domes
under a roof of stars that fishtail out to space.
How many times at this same window have I leaned
to feel the same sheet-lightning crack
when bats revolve at the horizon
and morning slowly rises, plain and blue.