Two Poems by Talbot Hook

About Face

Death has not yet come —
That autumn-wingéd,
Bare-branched god —
For me.

For months I lived alone,
Expectant with shared coffee cups,
Crumpled old paperbacks,
Waiting for Death.

Or was I waiting for You?

Waiting for You
To share sorrows til dawn,
Scattering our holy secrets,
For months to spend together.

For me —
With spring-fed eyes
And field-stirring laughter —
You have always been here.



It is strange to wait for Death
And have it never come,
Yet stranger still to find You,
And hope You never leave.


Lucubrations

What is it, to spend time:
to waste it, to use it, to kill it?

Can I really give you my time,
or you give me yours? Just whose is it?

As I sit here, passing whiles,
I wonder: what of my life?
My true life.
The one I practice at,
and wish for myself.
Can I abide my time — its passing?

And:

To those that have passed
beyond the smallness of this life,
how do you view me?
Can you endure my weakness?
Stomach my will?

And:

To those that will pass
into the smallness of this life,
how will you view me?
Do you blame me for my wasted time?
A squandered hour, a frivolous day?

Sometimes, I do.




Talbot Hook is a PhD student and occasional writer currently living in Connecticut.

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