Look, here is grief,
Her humid circuit riding,
And here is God,
Abiding.
And here warm grace
Runs down the lichen’s fuzz,
And here sweats God
With us.
Now tap the glass
Which keeps the foggy smile,
Safe from the chill,
A while.
Look, here are ghosts
Of maybe, and because,
And here are grapes I grew
From moss.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Grandmother, What Big Teeth You Have
Many years ago, I wrote a piece for this magazine called “Grim Tales.” At the time, I…
Christie’s Compelling Criminals
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, Theodore Dalrymple joins…
Lethe
He thought he saw her in the orchid house / and all the flowers seemed to disappear...
