Poetry

 

 

The sea sends your names away

swelling back—all foam—the guesses

of the years, the fears

and all the plans we made,

softly singing our berceuse.

Gone the hopes once high

as crow’s-nests in the highest

crosstrees; turn tail I run

betrayed like the falling

of one thousand suns

as our days as one are slain.

And—oh—the sleepless nights.

Morning produces nothing

but a single star.

 

 

John J. Mundt is a poet and writer living in New York City. Previously published work has appeared in Euphony, The New York Quarterly, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Ink, A&U, Change, The Chronicle, and Christopher Street. He currently is at work on a novel, Lazarus Remembered.

 

August 2004