But At Night, It Is Another Thing...

Mr. Hemingway had it right:
your aloneness is an ocean pressing down.
Beyond blue curtains
grey palms thresh,
below lost gulls
the dark surf crests. Soon
a hard-boiled dawn
will bound over the wild meniscus
like an arrow’s flight.

Huntsman, drinker, divorcé,
Ernest never went home to bed
unthinking;
he emptied out his brains against a setting sun.
He romanced a grievous truth:
he knew, you know, that nobody loves anyone.