The thought
of letting this moment
slip out of my grasp,
of surrendering it to time,
might just be bearable
if it could be vouchsafed
that each time I return to it,
down through sullen years,
it has not yellowed,
like old newsprint,
become foxed, fogged or tainted
with the aura of dead things.
Grant it, instead
the vibrance of a shard of glass
and let me forget that
each time I look
that shimmer and sparkle
will lead me on
to the inevitable wound
John R. Nicoll
