I had left myself almost open to the old comicbooks,
The starlit nights when I was whole and youth was fair,
Ageless records that haunt me yet, remembrance.
Soft girl, hair midnight black, with lips lisping, roaming
Abroad, the broken autumn railway.
Evenings when I peered at the sky.
The old yellow bed, fat and sumptuous, creaking,
Me awkwardly exposed in bedsocks to life,
Skies outside, lamplight, all acknowledged earnestly,
But incompletely. Yet skectchpads of time,
Hopeless even now, unremembered, un-sought after,
Forgotten like the calendars of ancient days.
Days! When the weak sun would shine in the cold white window,
And I would lounge by the wall,
With radio, with enchantments, with sorrow never expressed,
Except in insomnia fears and unknown whispers,
Where I could recline, fall, and weep gladly,
Repeating "for myself, myself".
And the nights! O my lost comicbook nights!
Frozen under glass, half-remembered, incoherent,
Nights so pristine-pure, shamefully lost!
Night, night, with not a whisper in it,
Not a threat of the shadow to fall,
In whirpooled chambers left bare to the elements,
Under electric light,
Chanting magic formulas, sacrificing rudiments of
Love, ashamed.
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