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—