Door
When the night
rubs out the horizon
and all this black
has more this quality of shade
and all the copsed trees
cluster around sleeping fields
and buried life waits and looks
a door in a heap of lived-in-stones opens,
neon turns the cowshed
into some kind of church.
This is the drained time,
the false dawn
that makes the morning man start.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2015
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