Bart Wolffe


Nightfall. The black heart where a man cannot measure

All that forgetfulness.

Is it that everything which went before

Has now been emptied, voided – all the uncountable

Loss of her love, unable to feel a touch now,

No face visible and even memory fading with the light

Of a torch which dims, its battery nearly dead?

Instead, the loneliness of an aircraft pulls distance

Towards a familiar haunting. A journey, perhaps,

Some want to go back, to feel again…

It is so vast, so vacuous without company

Other than a creature’s anonymity in the dark.

One cannot write but what one feels

And so we seek in blindness some sign,

A meteor above, a blinking star,

The far-off gunshot, the voice of God

Or talking to oneself in such confession

That writes this poem.

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