The New York Review of Books - - Contents - —Charles Simic

Those blessed mo­ments that pre­tend

They’ll stay with us for­ever— Soon gone, with­out a fare-thee-well. What’s the rush?

I heard my­self say.

You have the right to re­main silent,

The night told me as I sat in bed

Hatch­ing plans on how to hold the next Cap­tive in my head.

I re­call a win­dow thrown open one sum­mer day

On a grand view of the bay and a cloud in all that blue As pale as the horse

Death likes to ride.

Al­ways happy to shoot the breeze, that lone cloud

Was telling me as it drifted out to sea, To­ward some ship on the hori­zon,

That had al­ready set sail

And was about to van­ish out of sight,

On the way to some port and coun­try With­out name.

A ghost ship,

Most surely, but mine all the same.

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