Memory and photograph are the reflection of beauty.
Even so, I don’t reject them outright.
And literature has its noble hold on the honor
filtered through the light of the alembic mind,
transfigured into radiant things.

…Then, maybe I should hope to revise and finish
that problem draft for a few moments flight
(however brief), if not glory or honor and all is naught.

There it is, deep down within,
my oh, so precious being,
how delicate you are,
how long I’ve known you,
simple, hazy and unfocused you are…
Never did I so much want to cry.
So much for the inspiration.

I turn off the light and from my dark window
a starry incandescent night fills my eyes
with dreams not dreamt.
How is it I always seem to make the same error
by trying to write?
Alas, what a night.

Stephen Cipot
Garden City park