New Occidental Poetry

Mystery on a Wet Summer Night

Out past the trees,
in the semi-sacred grove,
the rain blush descends.
The first smell of autumn leaves enchants;
the mountains gently shift underground.

Summer is out there, dying.
The only ones mourning are students.
The rest pray for the cool vapor of October
and the calm fog of November.

But, before long, it will be December.
Drifts of white pain will coat the ground,
leaving behind dead things.
Then people will lust for

the mystery and majesty of wet summer nights.

-Benjamin Welton

Arthur PowellBenjamin Welton