ShiningKnight Posted August 15, 2004 Report Share Posted August 15, 2004 Returning Home Late Sunday Night Pale bulb. High sun. At Friday noon The porch lamp seemed a minor waste, But in the intervening days A darkness has replaced My bright backyard. The weed-cracked drive Advances into nothingness. It's queer, perhaps too simple, how, Returning home on Sunday night, That light burns like a stroke of genius now, Elucidating moths, a wicker chair, The gate that bears a jaw of shadowed fangs, And a spider's needlework in which The small, shriveled skeletons of flies Decay. Like props abandoned from a play, Two unread papers languish in the grass. Gravel. Latch. Hinge and lock. Each noise Grows amplified. And suddenly it seems Not just a weekend but a decade lost. There is the flavor of frost, a cloud-scrubbed moon, The rush of something dreadful yet to come, Not sleet nor snowflake on the mounting wind, But soon. Daniel Anderson The Yale Review Volume 92, Number 3 July 2004 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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