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.