Listen
The crash is inside.
In slow motion. Splinters
in the mind’s confusion.
Each evening the last boat goes
across to the other island.
When it is too dark to see,
I watch anyhow, remembering
how I wept that day in the Met
over a last self-portrait
by Rembrandt. The guard telling me
again and again it was closing time.
Linda Gregg
Posted over on Po'i-tre
No comments:
Post a Comment