Quiet now, sorrow; relax. Calm down, fear ...
You wanted the night? It’s falling, here,   
Like a black glove onto the city,
Giving a few some peace ... but not me.

I think, well, almost everyone I know
Loves to be whipped by pleasure—right, Killer?—   
As they stroll the boardwalk, parading their despair.   
So why don’t you come too? But instead, with me,

Away from all these tattered ghosts leaning off   
The sky’s balcony like last year’s lovers;
We’ll watch everything we regret step from the sea

Dripping ... while the dead sun drags its arc   
Towards China. Shroud of my heart, listen. Listen—   
How softly the night steps toward us.

~ by David St. John
from Study for the World’s Body: Selected Poems



J Cosmo Newbery said...

That is beautifully written; truly the stuff of meditations.

gz said...


goatman said...

As a tattered ghost myself, I also appreciate the stepping night!

Nice one -- what poetry was meant to be.

red dirt girl said...

This is beautiful .... gorgeous language, gorgeous images - lush, languid, scorching - this poem has it all.

i love it