An
Hour, More Or Less
Hours usually
are vague,
Dressed in fogs;
But this one hour, more or less,
Was naked and warm
As it is now resurrected in my cold and clothed mind.
This hour, more or less, was in Locarno.
It had not rained for months, a dry spell,
But that night for an hour, more or less, it poured.
The Ferris wheel by our window stopped turning,
All the lights went out.
Our love was dying,
But the darkness breathed in a new life
For an hour, more or less.
Copyright © 2000 Duane Locke
