Cold it is the night

Poem

Amidst the volumes and the tomes light,

Between the Manuscripts and sheeves

I turn each page in Sturgid Forest twinight,

within the crackling and crunching of the sleeves.

Cold it is the night and breaking is the West,

arise to the West may come, bitter bring its fruit,

and leaves behind the syllables wayward iambic worst

for I have not the patience to cover each de brut.

Would that each simple fair be caught up

in imagination’s deep flare, but cold it is the night:

in pentagonal pent meter with the frozen cup,

a seething frozen careless thought out fight

Does bring an end to the frozen and frigid couplet

And search for a personal design of the decouplet.