Winter 1963 • Vol. XXV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1963 |


"We have heard the chimes at midnight."—Falstaff We too have heard the chimes at midnight— We really did. From the campanile they floated As we emptied ample bladders, and you quoted A classic text to the tree that stirred in its sleep. "If you're not suffering, don't move." I apologize for recalling that scar of my own (Especially when I see how small it's grown) Instead of one of yours—but that's how it is. We talked for hours, of course (who hasn't?), About the women we'd known one way and another, And of trouble at home—father, mother, brother—And we talked of how we talked uncommonly well. Remember that? Those nights we compared Despair and bitterness, warriors revealing Heroic wounds that were still barely healing And a few of the sort of scars they would become. Do you ever have a moment, I wonder, When all those scars and more at once unheal And sing at dawn like birds, or singly peal Like chimes at midnight? You don't have to tell me.

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