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Hour

Sleepless
in the cold dark,
I look
through the closed dim
door be–
fore me, which be–
comes an
abyss into
which my
memories have
fallen
past laughter or
horror,
passion or hard
work—my
memories of
our past
laughter, horror,
passion,
hard work. An ache
of be–
ing. An ache of
being,
over love. An
ache of
being over
love. Like
projections on
the screen
of the heavy
window
curtains, flashing
lights of
a slow-scraping
after–
midnight snowplow
for a
moment pulse in
this room.
Other works by Reginald Gibbons ...



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