Glass Of Absinthe - Poem by Ernest Hilbert
No use pleading anymore at the dawn,
The waved-off world gone disastrous with time.
Decisions are uncomfortable
In this atmosphere. Valves drain, raise ballad—
Measures pound to flaked light, sun astride
Iron lace of railing on Royal Street—
Scrolled into oak leaves, acorns, sad long horns
In day shadows—urinal, late coffee.
They are restorations of ruined night,
But no beacon in our silver hours.
A life shaped by digressions: Linger long
Enough, and death itself loses the way to us.
She seems drunk but is not, her white skirt striped
With black from a fall on wet cobblestones.
Nothing is nimble. There is no good news.
She lights a small cigarette. She nods off.
She knots up and moves on. The horns stop, sprawl,
Speed up. Snares salvo again in new dark.
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