True Night By Alvin Feinman So it is midnight, and all The angels of ordinary day gone, The abiding absence between day and day Come like true and only rain Comes instant, eternal, again: As though an air had opened without sound In which all things are sanctified, In which they are at prayer— The drunken man in his stupor, The madman’s lucid shrinking circle; As though all things shone perfectly, Perfected in self-discrepancy: The widow wedded to her grief, The hangman haloed in remorse—... read more
