like hopeful boats
I bought a book of poetry for fifty cents. You almost can't beat poetry for fify cents. Here is my favorite poem so far, and I've only read about three:
November by Gregory Orr
Unable to sleep, I spend the predawn hours
browsing. Paul talks, in Corinthians, about
the Lamb of God: unless the dead are raised
there is no Christ, no heaven. In Plato's
Phaedrus, the soul, imprisoned in a body,
painfully grows wings, longs to mount skyward
toward the world of Forms.
But desire's
my god and resides in thisworld,
floating at night on a sea of ghosts
that rises and falls, sorrowful water
pulled by the moon.
And at dawn, desire's
there in the white field below my window
where three cows kneeling make small
green shapes aroudn them with their body heat,
shapes in the frost like hopeful boats.
November by Gregory Orr
Unable to sleep, I spend the predawn hours
browsing. Paul talks, in Corinthians, about
the Lamb of God: unless the dead are raised
there is no Christ, no heaven. In Plato's
Phaedrus, the soul, imprisoned in a body,
painfully grows wings, longs to mount skyward
toward the world of Forms.
But desire's
my god and resides in thisworld,
floating at night on a sea of ghosts
that rises and falls, sorrowful water
pulled by the moon.
And at dawn, desire's
there in the white field below my window
where three cows kneeling make small
green shapes aroudn them with their body heat,
shapes in the frost like hopeful boats.