by Peter Holm-Jensen
The will falters yet again, so soon after being rebuilt; the drinker awakes that night in a pool of guilt; the farce continues. O Subtle Visitor, beam of light in the heart of this night, shine a little of your magic on me. I confess my will is broken; let me leave it on this altar I’m building for you with shaking hands; give me yours. Dawn is born in trepidation. The dove is thrown over the glistening water, flapping in panic. It remembers its element, regains poise, and gives itself up to the winds.
Peter Holm-Jensen, author of A Kept Woman, is an émigré living in the UK, where he writes Notes from a Room.