for W.H. Auden


I reached over, just now, for Auden,
whom I keep on my nightstand. Mid-reach,
I remember that I have packed him for the move
and cannot, without noise at this late hour,
read his Lullaby. Oh, must I then imagine,

on my own, the sublime of a star-voided
sky? I find, romance aside, that I cannot
throw out his cracked teacup, no matter how I try,

for there is flu in our cities, and within the milieu, unrest.
Are we fools, enough, to forget the fall of Rome?

08/14/2009

Posted on 08/14/2009
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