—Harry Lafnear

My eyes are the first to go,
Smearing the sail of this night
Into a starless blur,
A Sargasso entreating the ear,
That it’s safe to release its inner keel,
That the weight on my mind
Is nothing compared
To the weight of my bones.

It is time
For the crow’s next crower,
Losing his voice,
To spiral down the mast,
The sun snuffed out
And the ocean of day
All dried away.

All that’s left,
In a few more lines,
Is to salve the new wounds
On the muse’s palms
So she isn’t the last
Content to sleep—
Isn’t left unguarded
To pinch me in my dreams.

One thought on “Vigil

  1. Such a gem, Harry! One of those truly poetic achievements, whose meanings can’t be paraphrased without killing the spirit of the words! Such evocative images of loss, or the end, or of ‘going’: the crow’s nest crower, spiraling down the mast; your tears, (ah, the eyes, going!) "smearing the sail of this night"But I put in my corner of favorites (later I’ll steal it somehow, I’m sure!) the relative weights of mind, and bone. This poem fits Emily’s definition for me.

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