I go, then,
to enjoy one of those under-the-evening-
Here is a freshly laid table of
half-eaten desserts and nameless cups of coffee
with the streams of
night flowing toward us
like clouds of sawdust,
with a streamlined echo of animal sounds with tedious edges.
With the darkening dark,
it is an enhanced evening,
an overwhelming experience,
it is a table of love
greater than the daylight hours.
Oh, how I long to ask what it is
that ties our streams
to the virtual world,
that temporary visit.
All the hours,
in they come, out they go,
All the hours.
So I go to enjoy one of those dreams in the evening,
the warmer hours of night,
to this selfsame place wherein is a freshly laid table of
cups of coffee and panels of bread and literature and la-la-la-ing
streaming into an irreplaceable night.
This is the world,
this, this the setting of shops and airports,
this world of words and people and trees,
this trying stream of animal sounds
beyond the table, this indispensable, tedious
cold cloud of sounds.
This table that sits before the growing darkness,
It is an enhancement of our evening.
Yet in the end,
this is not a lasting hour.
We are but experiencing a
stream leading to a joy
beyond all manner of daylight hours.
Oh, how the evening
of these temporal worlds
how the hours prolong
these temporary visits.
Oh, how I long for forever docks
where I will always throw sticks and rocks
in the rick-rocking waves.
Latest posts by Ben Plunkett (see all)