Four Poems

Night Shift

Well, shepherd, well,
the golden age is gone
and I sit mumbling here.
My books keep watch on me.
I read them, feeling sorry for myself,
while all the time
a cyclorama of wind and stars
is being drawn across my sight.

Death has modified the house
for senior use, but gaps appear
when my body falls back on the bed.
O little room in my heart
with its view of paradise,
become my will
which won’t agree with me.
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