The Fourth

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together.

~T.S. Eliot, “The Wasteland”

Today I am the morning man
Who shovels through my snowy walk.
That night, the woman shadow-shoveled
In the warm-crushed rowing dark:

Two hunched thinkers, lovers, clutched
At light’s raked progress over flesh
While two shame-shades slipped from
The scene, dry hands in cold pockets.

Myriad distant darkstars, earthshine
Scratched up by the waxing moon
Begged to be that dim streetlight,
Watching what bright shadows do.


2 Responses to “The Fourth”

  1. eduardo says:

    One of me wants to exhale a quiet, Wow. One other of me wants nothing to break the spell this poem has draped me in. Yet still another of me wants to analyze what it is about the poem that makes me(s) feel so. And there’s still one more me who says, “It could always be like this, you know, life.”

    “This is the sorcery of literature. We are healed by our stories.” -Terry Tempest Williams

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