H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s
b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i
v e s E d i t i o n
DAVID COPE
Lear By Lanterlight
white moon now
thru the tent where
Poor Tom brings
his old father up to th’ extreme
verge—
my companions asleep
far across the clearing, their
logsawing complement to roaring
winds above the highest firs—
this a.m., their kayaks were
taken in raging cross-currents, yet one
dipped & feathered merely
with a paddle tip, & found the center—
to float where the heart
slows, the ear tuned to
the humming of that silence
none hears in the smug city
where blindness comes not from
cruelty, but the stealth of routine—
even such an eye-
less man may need to see
his life’s a miracle, O moon
thru my tentflap now—
[Originally
published in NHS 2001, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs01/cope.html.]