The Dark Ends of the Day

At the dark ends of the day I burn dim lamps
to bathe my face in the refractions of an empty page.
This eucharistic light, these cigarettes, quieten me,
though candles never yet raised a corpse.
But if I should sleep the pasts close in,
heavier than blankets, more stiffling than Summer,
from which world I return haggard
as from the Harrowing of Hell.

So each cigarette is my prayer (should God exist)
to let me rest or let me write,
while the shape in the bed mumbles, “Come and sleep”,
and my body trembles at the summons of my Queen.
But the King must answer his endless question,
“Sit I thus upon my throne and cannot rule my page?”
And remaining here unanswered, give paternity’s suit,
“Lord of all I don’t perceive, receive me now.”