Walter Pater's Hour


Half awake

on your Empire sofa
by a fiery assurance
of your latest essay
you gaze
outside your window
at pure chance
when the moon
scrapes an empty sky
and red street lamps
disperses light
in the grey of dusk
around the baroque clock
hearing a melody
from a mandolin
in Venice
a season before,
an embittered hour
bids your absence
entangled with repose
losing yourself
in phantom memories
with a calendar
of feelings
lacerated in flames
for art itself.

B.Z. Niditch

If you have any comments on this poem, B. Z. Nidich would be pleased to hear them.