Fall 2009 • Vol. XXXI No. 4 Poetry |

The Aurora of the Midnight Ink

Will you really walk from one edge of the city to the other dressed only in illusion & shame? How can I urge you to turn back? Selene, when we return, we return to the book. The book opens, & the world unfolds into its lattice-work of hymns. It is the excruciating alchemy by which the spirit lives. I will live there with you, in the hotel of the spirit, where the sheets are changed daily. Every instinct for darkness is countered by yet another instinct for the light. Stand with me, as I stand beside you in my jacket from Verona, its deep slate blue of the gentlemen on their passeggiata. Here, take my pen, the scarred Mont Blanc, or the old Parker 50—it's your choice tonight—& write to me in the script of the present, write to me about those long white petals of a carpenter's shavings uncurling from his plane; write to me & tell me how the mind can require such certainty of the dark. Any unfolding is an unfolding into light, that unlocked origami o

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By David St. John

Will you really walk from one edge of the city to the other dressed only in illusion & shame? How can I urge you to turn back? Selene, when we […]

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