I came home tonight to find a poem, spirited to me by someone I don't know. It's a good one, so I'll post it, at least till the writer, one Eric Basso, tells me not to. And when I find out more about the origins of this piece, I'll post a follow-up. It's hot off the printer, looks like. Meanwhile, I'll just say it was like magic, discovering this in my in-box. Art that moves us finds us. Hallelujah.
Diurnal Insomnia
the clock was ticking backwards
on the roof of the pin factory
and each night the hours passed
so slowly that the city slept with
one eye open but still dreams came
merging their décor with patterns in
the drapes which framed the window
at the foot of every quaking bed
stone gods rose from paralysis
to a breakfast of bitter tea
saw haloes pulsing feebly
around extinguished lamps
for weeks after we crossed to
the other side there were blinding
corridors of white pine and poplar
as far as the eye could squint
--Eric Basso
January 23, 2006
