Milton lay in his Cripplegate grave
repeating to himself that one blindness
was similar to another. He felt the weight
of time-to-come the way he’d once borne sky.
This was no more alone than his wives’ deaths
had made him feel. As he’d feared, paradise
had nothing to do with him.
Still, there was comfort: no more
ink-starved pens, no tasks waiting
Barry Dempster has published more than sixteen collections of poetry, among other books, and has twice been nominated for a Governor General’s Literary Award.
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