Nocturne: 34th Winter
A three-degree wind out there. On the radio, a jazz version of "Time After Time."
Dark speech upon the harp. The doctor in Berlin. La demoiselle de Brooklyn.
A dark wind scowls. A saxophone makes 1984 immediate. When did it all begin, was it with Mrs Watkins and the misconstrued syllabus?
If a tune plagues the ear, unhinder it, unlock the song.
It was not enough to live within that golden voice, or under the dominion of those dark brown eyes.
Dead leaves in public parks, alternative lyrics of doom. Rust and splendor. Is there no chronicle that is not of wasted days?
Back to the diaries of Bardstown and vicinity, to the liturgies of loss. Back to the strange-sounding Now with its dusty radiance, its bleary sobriety.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
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Written on 2017-06-29 at 08:21
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