Thursday, September 22, 2011
Remembering the ninth year of the millennium
My mornings’ glory, my evenings’ nest,
You were my mooring in life’s unrest.
(But let us agree it was not love, if that is what makes you feel good: we never even had a song for us.)
Now all that I have must seem enough
For nothing more can be had.
On a stained pink bed-cloth lies tarnished,
Freezing, frozen Silver.