Some nights it's bound to be your best way out,
When nightmare is the short end of the stick,
When sleep is a part of town where it's not
To walk at night, when waking is the only
You have of distancing your wretched dead,
A growing crowd, and escaping out of
Time into yours for another little while;
Then pass ghostly, a planet in the
Never observed, among the sleeping
Where children dream themselves, and thence go
Into the empty domain where daylight reigned;
Reward yourself with drink and a book to read,
A mystery, for its elusive
Of reassurance against the hour of death.
Order your heart about:
Stop doing that!
And get the world to be secular again.
Then, when you know who done it, turn out the light,
And quietly in darkness, in moonlight, or
Reflective, listen to the whistling
In its backspin trajectory around the
That makes the planets sometimes
And brings the cold forgiveness of the
Whose light extinguishes all stars but one.
Howard Nemerov was born on February 29th, 1920 in New York.
He died of cancer at his home in University City,
Missouri on July 5th 1991.
