Last night the Truth Ferry
Put in as I slept
And left a verse in bed
And took the dime I'd left.
It wasn't printed neatly
And neither fine nor fair.
I read it only when and where
No one else could hear.
This is the way the worm—
I wonder how it ends.
Bangs and pine and dirt
And pale segmented friends,
Perhaps. I am afraid
I can't write in my sleep.
I cannot hear the sound
Of what is taking shape
In dark rooms growing darker,
Quiet, humid, dumb.
To every boy and girl
At night a truth will come.
No comments:
Post a Comment