Jun 3, 2008

Thou May’st in Me Behold

Written by David Graham

Read by Sara Stripling

Look at this man at his window all agog
at the mortal weather. Fall’s doing its misty thing,
leaves swirling to the ground, and most of us,
it seems, are a little past our sell-by dates.

Comfort comes in various guises,
like the soft grandmotherly hands of day
rolling you back to sleep after night frost.
Or: not like that at all: it depends

on factors like how many dead flies per sill,
how bright the stars, where do clouds go
when midnight moon shines its spot …
To love that well which thou must leave ere long?

Well, kind of. Mostly it’s the slow quilt
slipping to the floor some time in the night,
and running after it in time-lapse dreams,
sleet ticking on your face like rice thrown at a bride.

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