Prospect Refuge Studio
In the unreason of a rainy midnight
France blooms along the windows
Of my sleepy bathysphere,
And runs to seed, in a luxuriance of curious lights

Escape is drawn straight through my dream
And shines to Paris, clean as a violin string,
While springtides of commotion,
(The third-class pianos of the Orient Express)
Fill up the hollow barrels of my ears.

Cities that stood, by day, as gay as lancers
Are lost, in the night, like old men dying.
At a point where polished rails branch off forever,
The steel laments, like crazy mothers.
We wake, and weep the deaths of the cathedrals
That we have never seen,
Because we hear the jugulars of the country
Fly in the wind, and vanish with cry.
— — Thomas Merton, The Night Train, April 1942
January 2018Victoria Sass