4: 54: 37 Poem by GORDON GILHULY

his breath clouds the cold air

here on the brittle edge of morning

the sky beginning to crack; the moon

exhausted, sinking



this was not the first frost but

it has been a killing one he knows that

if he takes steps now the very

grass will snap his walking away

will leave a black trail that

cannot be undone



his pain is blue and green music

his pain is melting clocks at the moment of first explosion



he is his pain

that he paints on the canvas

of friends of deserted lovers

labelling it self-portrait but not

knowing it as projection



his pain is 4: 54: 37

and he is on the edge

of darkness:



he has an intimate knowledge

of darkness it is not even

a matter of silhouettes it

is a hole filled with the absence

of light and he

a blind archaeologist searching for

shards so that he may

remember his future