This night stands at the death of summer,
Poised to catch the fall of leaves,
The deadened pulse of green things
Grown disconsolate in the hands of Frost.

How am I deserving?
A dog to have an angel.
A drunken mongrel, lapping up his drink out of the sewers,
stumbling and mumbling and howling his way home.
Smoking cigarette after cigarette, eating his fill of what's in his bowl.
A liar, a thief, a beggar, a cheat.
A homeless dog, screaming, baring his teeth at the others,
until his cowardice overcame him and he whimpered into the woods,
crying with his tail between his legs. Nothing but shame to clothe him
and even that hung loosely.
And how now, am I deserving?
A dog, to have an angel.
An angel, whose song is hummed so softly, it could be the twinkling stars whispering. whose eyes, light and caramel and emerald, ignite waterlogged embers into competitive thrusts of red-hot atomic energy. The energy to move. To grow!
TO EXPAND!
how now?
Am I deserving?
of an angel with a fabric
of a million hurts and echoing pains,
laid so gently upon her shoulders,
that it is royal,
and she is not ruined,
but exalted.
Am I deserving?
The mongrel.
The angel.
The drunkard.
The farce.

It happened, as we walked into the narrow space between Fantasy and Metaphor, that we came upon the hills of Truth, and I sensed above me that which I could not know but almost did.

I asked the man, "Tell me, kind sir, what is it that I cannot know but almost do?"

"I cannot tell you," said the man.

We continued on, until we reached the rippling waters of the Self. And as we watched the gentle waves, I sensed behind me that which I once knew but then forgot.

I asked the man, "Tell me, kind sir, what is it that I once knew but then forgot?"

"I've already told you," said the man.

We continued on, until we arrived at the very center of Love. There we stood, and suddenly I sensed within me that which I knew, but could not speak.

I asked the man, "Tell me, kind sir, what is it that I know but cannot speak?"

And the man said, "That is You."

Then I said, "But if I cannot speak it, how will They ever know Me?"

The man laughed. "They already do," he said.

Then he turned and walked away, toward the narrow space between Fantasy and Metaphor whence he had come.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                       Neither a King nor a Boss

A gas station close by the overpass
A display case of shiny knives and knucks
One of the knives features a naked lady
Some of the knucks are labeled “KING” and “BOSS”

But would the object of a metallic punch
Have time to read either the “KING” or “BOSS”
Before he fell among his blood and pain?
A legless man in a wheelchair rolls by

To his blue tarp and sleeping bag close by
The gas station close by the overpass