heart of winter
yesterday I recalled a bleak, cobalt-blue November night;
on the top floor, in the room at the back of the building, and
under the ghastly slanted glow of a sodium lamp,
freely, almost proudly, you utter the tales of your life, the tone of your voice
resonating at the harmonics of lust and loneliness.
i stared placidly at the agitated light filament,
grinning like a deranged woman, you tell me of the needle, the
hollowness dissipating in
the mindless hum of a vacant chemical sleep.
even then, my words remain uninflected, my steady gaze
never wavering from your hollowed out light-brown eyes.
morning came, then evening, these things never spoken of again, but
every time i see that diseased yellow glow, i think of you
.
.
.
Timothy A. Clark
1997