What the Earth Taught Us
Arnold Johnston

He grumbles at the dying of the light
And squints at the blank page. The transmission
Of his numbers makes no deep impression
On any soul. He yawns, decides he might
As well turn in. His face, more cause for fright
Each day in his mirror, takes confession
But shrives nothing. His sullen obsession
With craft burrows in him like a termite
Nesting in a lean-to. He sings this dirge
To his reflection, then hits the pillow.
Outside, clouds move in the wind, stars gutter
And fade. He sleeps heavy, dreams of the surge
That fills each green fuse; but as the yellow
Dawn wakes him, he cannot help but shudder.

ISBN 1-882983-26-2
47 pages/$6