Nights

On a cold, dark, dearth autumn night, While I wrestle, nestle faithfully near my window pane Over a long memory of callous and precarious heart break from a callus pain While I stayed, stared at the glow worm's luminescence on a fig, at curved ends of their tails Nearly torpid, turbid, toxic. Momentarily heard a herd of thud on my third roof Conjure the golden, gladden owl, often of night companion, on trodden, burdened rave. Proclaim, grinned, grunted in ominous more Reciting my name Admore. Dearie! My crematorium cranium insignificantly recast last day of February And each last subsidiary day cast its memory on my burglary Reminiscing that cluttered, clumsy stairs of irony That gyred and gyred across the grievous sky Across the pour, on pore of my poor friend Paul Who had sojourn to hunt, haunt a lousy ant Hope he returns soon before his son, Sean sees the sun. Hope this or alack! Or never more. Then, I cast my torch, my stars train of fire, on the rusty roof. To see this dreadful creature hoofing on my dusty hoof Be it the golden owl. Oh, I spare not! With chalice mixed with nectar and gall. Or be it the blind black Bertsimas bat? Heavens knows won’t await the orange cypress to flower. As the trodden, torchy light glimmered on this dreary creature. That had been deafening and dabbling the drowsy night. Admore! Admore! Wake up! Wake Up! Mother taps Holy Heavens! All a dream, all a dream. Nothing more!