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.