Music From the Abbey
Keep illumined,
Under the bright 8 o'clock
Skies of the Northwest.
Shouts of "lemonade!"
Are peppered with music from the Abbey
Behind the house I now call my home.
This poem moves
With the stretched-out days
Of brisk summer evenings
With the passions that once pressed
Against me with the "what's next?" sprint
Alongside motoring buses.
Though these days I stop.
And wait for it.
Still and bent back and looking out
Onto my new street named, "Motor Place."
The action outside of me now:
Like a humming tuning fork
All about my paralytic mind.
I let go. Months ago.
And so it went.
I sit now like a lighthouse might.
Shining without method,
Thoughtless radiation.
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