Early Mourning - Poem by Jack Growden
The still of neap night
Withdraws another sip;
A stone cold bottle
Stings a quivering lip.
Sullen eyes stare ponderous
Through unwavering black -
Tonight the fox of reminiscence
Needs not its trademark knack.
As one’s drug-mortared walls crumble
When only streetlights flicker
Thus returns anguish and dismay
In this hour; never quicker.
For the bass still bellows
Though growing bitter and brittle,
As no fiddle tenors in reply -
No love, not even a little.
Hence though one dove may fly
While sunrise awaits its dawning,
Another’s sails have been lowered,
In this: an early mourning...
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