by Jack Hanson

It’s as if the natural cold of the night
is dispersed by the fog that fills the park
as you, a friend, and I walk and sit and talk,
each separately for a while, then somehow
all at once. There are birds or perhaps crickets
whose calls cut through the fog, but only
add to the sound of our voices, as if elaborate
stage designs in sound, but only for our ears, and those
of the few people who walk by and must wonder.
They must wonder, since who could be human
at this hour? Human, that is, social and quietly
attuned to the park, the birds or crickets,
each other’s talking, and then whole of it all, together.
It’s true Augustine allowed you to enjoy only four things,
and the fourth was just the first three, all together,
and the rest of life must be for your use. This is,
however, enjoyment, and I wonder whether
the park, the birds or crickets, each other’s talking
are not all taken up into one object of adoration,
which fills the air like fog, dispersing the cold
that is certainly there, and which admits of no praise.


About the Author:

Jack Hanson is a graduate student at Yale University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in the PN ReviewThe New CriterionThe Scofield and elsewhere. He is the author of the chapbook, Monica Moody and Other Poems (Pen and Anvil, 2017).

Cover photograph by Torsten Trautwein via Flickr (cc).