Chimeras in the Body of the Dusk
(Memories of Viet Nam)
(To hear Shelley recite this poem, click here.)

It is that time of day; the sea rising
and the lull - the muffled time of time
between time - of day's decline to verging
night. On a gusty strand I stand in the lee
of a tall stone to see the dusk merging
soundless with the brine, watch it reach
me, as if brought by the wind, catch me
and take me in.

Alone in the body of the dusk I hold hard
to my anchoring stone; my hands, grown cold,
slip in the spray and slap of the restive water.
In the lesser light of near-night, the wetted stone
glows with wens and warts, like the flesh
of a crone. Then, reeking of the sea's offal,
it moves; churning, it flows from itself into
itself, while I, a panicked puff of down, cry
for a place to fall, unable to find the ground.

Dusk is where we craft the chimeras who feed
on darkness where deception waits and works
its best. But daylight's rest is short, and tomorrow,
no fool for convenient demons, will come with
weight and consequence; with harsh insistence
of the time and the war, with dread at breakfast
for the reading of the score, and prayers that more
of theirs are dead than ours.