Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: James Aitchison

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on

The poem came in the night,
out of the stilly darkness,
each word crystalline,
each line exact,
the whole effect polished,
perfect, perfect!,
I dare say edible,
hovering a millimeter
beyond my consciousness;
but with the dawn
came the blankness,
the poem’s absence palpable
in the streaky light.

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