‘Hind the back of unsuspecting midnight,
Down roads of forged, feigned light,
The limbs which dash across the watches land
– With their razor’d jolts to the right –
Cut ‘round the face, bound by but a band,
To a wrist that holds my writing hand.
Time, everlasting, creeps as if on natures power
– A concept man tries to understand –
Right up the walls of dim night’s garden bower;
Like vines blessed with constant shower,
So quickly grows the witching flower –
Thy black and blooming rose, my dear First Hour.
How hopelessly had I tried to quantify,
To capture, breed, and multiply
Every dwindling, irreplaceable second
Carelessly spent while waiting to die.
Until thee, First Hour, who with bleakness beckoned
That my lost time must neither be tallied, nor reckoned.
Thou said, “Only by deeds and words does repetition
– Ne’er time – come back ‘round again, repeat a second.”
So, it is to thee do I fold submission –
Damn the break of day! First Hour, give me new tradition;
Help me speak without such hazed omission,
Explain thy beaming lack of light – O, juxtaposition!
With thee, would I so comfortably dwell
In such thy silent stillness of post-midnights bell
Though my watch tells me to leave thee, Hour of the First.
Drink I’ll another teacup from thy eternal well,
Until this Lethe gin has me coerced
To stay with thee forever, perpetuate my thirst.
I would entomb myself within this fleeting flicker,
Beneath thy constellations: distance songs, well versed.
And the stars, as if a berry picker
I’d pluck from the thy void, the sky-branched wicker
Which only in thy hour grows deeper, thicker,
Enough to birth the Junipers of such a sparse and potent liquor.
I would abandon all I lack and have, live a life both poor and low,
Forsake my human right to see Aurora’s Northern glow
If I could, with thee, my stumbling days out draw;
I would throw myself to the riptides relentless undertow,
Indenture myself to agony of liver-vultures gnaw.
I’d give anything for thee, ‘tis indeed my tragic flaw.
For I, a fool, with open arms, would embrace this boozen blight!
For to be in the darkness of thy hour, untouched, pure, and raw
Prompts me to abandon my book-stack blinded sight;
Remove myself from mimicry, and phrases ever trite.
And unlike those before me, ‘pon wings of Dawn, ne’er take flight,
Instead, stay rooted with thee, eternally, First Hour after midnight.