By Reginald Gibbons
The thick-walled room’s cave-darkness,
cool in summer, soothes
by saying, This is the truth, not the taut
Rest here, out of the flame—the thick air’s
stirred by the fan’s four
slow-moving spoons; under the house the stone
has its feet in deep water.
Outside, even the sun god, dressed in this life
as a lizard, abruptly rises
on stiff legs and descends blasé toward the shadows.
Reginald Gibbons, “At Noon” from The Ruined Motel. Copyright © 1981 by Reginald Gibbons. Reprinted with the permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
Source: The Ruined Motel (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1981)
More Poems about Nature
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My brother still bites his nails to the quick,
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So much hurt is forgotten with the horizon
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