~H.
PALMER
HALL~
GHOST
LIGHTS
A still breath on the summer breeze
and high hills in Dak To loom
over us. No quick answers
ever
spring to mind, no drops of peace,
not even less than slow, perhaps,
now, inertia, a gradual "settling
in."
We no longer even move our lips to
ask
or, if we do, old slogans drop from
voices
that always have an answer and never
find
a truth, just wriggling obfuscations
and
something like the Marfa lights
dancing
at the dark ends of ancient tunnels.
© by H. Palmer Hall
