michael hogan (July 14,1943 / Newport, Rhode Island)
Where it comes from is anybody's guess
but on a clear afternoon when
the earth is brilliant with its own shining—
Chinese lanterns of red maples
scattershot of diamonds from windshields
of passing cars in the foothills—
darkness comes: an umbrella of penumbra
clouding over all you wished to be
or ever thought to do.
Seconds before, every cell sang: "I'm alive! "
Now blood pumps in sluggish diastole, dropping.
and everywhere it is four AM.
Nothing you did makes sense
and nothing you'll ever do.
Those who love you or think they do
hover like relatives at a deathbed.
You smile politely, indifferently
with the look of someone
who has already seen the other side.
Comments about this poem (Depression by michael hogan )
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