The Corner



Frost from her breath on glass,

Thin arteries made dark

By a slow finger’s pass,

Are the hand’s speech, and mark


As something to be said

Her waiting emptiness.

She writes; behind her, a bed,

On which her form’s impressed.


There’s no one to watch her letters

Take form a moment only.

What secrets she has set there

Are legible to her only.


Is it the fear of dawn

Or something from the past

Still present that she’s drawn

There, where it will not last?


Each night’s a rented room,

Each thought a humid blur,

And dawn lies in a tomb

Scratching to be disinterred.

— James M. Wilson

This poem appears in the April 11, 2016, print edition of National Review.


Members of the National Review editorial and operational teams are included under the umbrella “NR Staff.”


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