To the Poem I Did Not Write Last Night, & To Its Reader Who Will Not Read It But Will At Least Have This
A thousand years from now, the distance between last night
and tonight will be infinite. Unreachable, like the star
you pretend to hold at the end of the line I never wrote.
The last night of a waning moon is this night’s memory
cradling in its thin hand the entire darkness
of what we almost cannot see and so pretend
is not there even as what never happened
pulls us back like moonlight through winter trees.
Stay awake to watch. You have only twenty five thousand seconds
to read this before you wake up remembering that
I never wrote it, brimming with loss and a poem that
started with How does the waning moon still rise?
To the poet who did write this: Exquisite, Jeff.
Thanks, AK! Got enough snow up there?
Feels like I should know you. That poem was filled with aching. Maybe that is the familiarity. Nicely done.
Thanks J. That is probably it!
This reader has quite a lot in this poem.
Ahhh, goes with my new word for the day: Ambedo.
Eric! Thanks and glad to see you here. I just knew that word came from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows!
I mean to say: This reader has *found* quite a lot in this poem.
Ooh, so cool an idea, Jeff. Futuristic and poignant too. Thoughts that go in expressed make me sad. My parents raised us to say our wishes, hopes and dreams aloud. Then, if we miss someone we can at least say we tried out best to get to know them, date them, too. 🙂
In expressed= unexpressed opps!
I figured that one out. Thank you!