POETRY
In Rows Upon the Grass
Patrick McDonough
And perhaps then this is for the best
To return sword and armour into their toy chest
And allow the dragon its working week
To manufacture a moonlight less oblique
To share with you at end of day
Here in the home we have painted gray
Here where the stars might still remain
Beyond the street lights and window panes
And perhaps the night
Might forgive us this
Beside the hearth of our warm abyss
And perhaps the newspapers upon the table
Might replace the kingdom and its fable
As they wrap a heart from the market place
In obituaries and a strangers face
Upon the table where silence waits
Cold upon matching dinner plates
Here where the words might still be true
Though they make no mention of me or you
And perhaps the night
Might forgive us this
If indeed somewhere we still exist
And perhaps the sheets upon our bed
Might be better pulled above our heads
As they shroud a love of convenient ease
In death received in small degrees
Upon the pillows where no dream wakes
Waiting for a mourning that no light makes
Here where the dawn might still arrive
If indeed somewhere it yet survives
And perhaps the light
Might forgive us this
Upon the pretense of a goodnight kiss
And perhaps then this is for the best
To hide away your summer dress
Somewhere away in a plain pine chest
Somewhere away in a plain pine chest
And meet me waiting in the yard
Where not in hearts
We carved our names
Although to me
On stone
They seem all the same
Lined in rows upon the grass
Where none of us would dare to dance
Lined in rows upon the grass
Where once we spoke of true romance
Lined in rows upon the grass
Lined in rows upon the grass
