It is dark now, in this cluttered room.
I am alone; the sea
breaks despairingly on rocks
as my soul is tossed, cut
and bleeding upon the rotted docks
of the world.
The only other
sound is the whine of a fan,
which has suddenly halted.
This seclusion is anonymous
as the twilight hour
that belongs to no one
quiet, compromising, baroque, and unsung.
But the silence is broken
by the song of a bird
in his element of inverted dark,
but it is not enough, for the door
yields a thousand rude alarms,
now the song gives heart;
I unfold a river of myself
and throw me in his arms.

                                   Published circa 1959.

About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to assure that never happens.