Nightfall's Nest: Basement
After great pain, a formal feeling comes-
The nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs-
The stiff heart questions was it he that bore,
And yesterday, or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
Of ground, or air, or ought
A wooden way
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead-
Remembered, if outlived,
As freezing persons, recollect the snow-
First- chill- then stupor- then the letting go-
--emily dickinson, 341
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