In the Dark

I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils,
Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper-weight,
All the misery of manila folders and mucilage,
Desolation in immaculate public places,
Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard,
The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher,
Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma,
Endless duplication of lives and objects.
And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions,
Finer than flour, alive, more dangerous than silica,
Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium,
Dropping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows,
Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate grey standard faces.

by Theordore Roethke (1908-63).

This entry was posted on September 12, 2011 at 10:58 am and is filed under Poetry with tags Dolor, Theodore Roethke. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.