Written in Maine, late, before bed…
A few minutes left, that is all
And night descends like a curtain call
The mind runs through its lines, then night
And enter demons for the fight
But not a moral play plays out
Only the self to freely doubt
And then to wake again to live
As though there were and order given
Past a hundred thousand lines
All delivered, “I am fine”
Till our illusions become real
And as uneasy as we feel
—
Here I kneel, not out of homage
but to straighten my crained spine
as the harbor howls, filling with fog
and the book of prophets lays open
before me on the table beside my bottle.
My ghost in the glass accompanies me,
“Not fame or fortune did I seek,
but first knowing, finally arriving.”