Two poems · 9 September 2026

Some nights, before the curtain, we trimmed the lamp together; a whole life talked through, and again it was the third watch. Told from the beginning, told to the end — half of it still there. Let the night go deep; let the ink congeal in the inkstone by itself. The words thin out. The dew begins to fall. One phrase alone is left, and it will not come clear. Again and again the brush-tip comes up black; when the ink is thickest, it will not make the words.

Shadow of the curtain, several nights of long talk; the first dew wetting the rail. The words not finished — the breathing settled first. Deep in dream, knowing nothing; the moon up, the night nearly gone. Some other day the heavy curtain will fall to the floor, fall exactly as it did before. A hand beside the lamp, turning a few times. Tomorrow the wind may blow hard; for now, shut the window well.