An open window--gentle summer air
drifts, pulsing with cicada song. The moon
an eye half-closed, made drowsy by the tune.
Wide open porchlight twin that casts its glare
on flitting moths and junebugs. In the yard,
pale light on wind-bent grass mirrors the sky
sprayed thick with stars. Street noises swell and die,
while inside, I feel old--an Abelard
without his Heloise. But here is no
new muse: only the sounds of dark, the night
that slowly closes round, a curtain drawn
on all that's first to pass and yet to go.
Soon now I'll close my book, put out the light,
and hide myself in dreams until the dawn.
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