Written after reading Melville's "To Winnefred"

In this century-weighted house beneath the black silhouettes of live oaks, the twilight western sky is flat, bloodless blue, houselamps and streetlights few and far between, the cats restless. It is one of those nights that may become like those whose memory I often turn back to: almost alone, the world growing quiet, a book plucked from a pile to reveal passages like sharp blows to the heart. I drink tea and marvel that I am moved to take up the pen and affix this sliver of time to paper.