Hour by Reginald Gibbons

Hour

Sleepless 

in the cold dark, 

I look 

through the closed dim 

door be- 

fore me, which be- 

comes an 

abyss into 

which my 

memories have 

fallen 

past laughter or 

horror, 

passion or hard 

work—my 

memories of 

our past 

laughter, horror, 

passion, 

hard work. An ache 

of be- 

ing. An ache of 

being, 

over love. An 

ache of 

being over 

love. Like 

projections on 

the screen 

of the heavy 

window 

curtains, flashing 

lights of 

a slow-scraping 

after- 

midnight snowplow 

for a 

moment pulse in 

this room.