Burt Kimmelman: Steeple at Sunrise

Ritual

At night I undress — 

remove my shirt, pants,

socks, underwear — stand 

bereft at the pit’s

edge. Naked, I wait

for the stroke — then put

on my shorts to sleep, 

slip beneath the sheet

and lie back — at peace.

 To Let Go

Pine hills dark

against day, 

earth of dirt

and water 

in slumber — 

the late light,

less and less, 

unravels — 

letting go.

The Night

Lake Aeroflex, Late July

Night’s silence

starts with dusk,

when work is 

done, the day’s

decline. In

evening, light

lessening,

branches sway — 

a single

cricket’s chirp

severing

the stillness — 

all creatures’ 

dark din, their

calling. We

listen, look

up, think of

distant stars.

Year’s End

2019

The morning back door open,

our cats leaving for the day,

squirrels begin their fearful

chirping, the trees towering

above. I wait for the word,

the world’s final undoing,

the world’s claim upon its kind.

By a Stream

Teatown Reservation, New York

Water flows

around rocks,

curling in

a mirror, 

sky above — 

sun, tree, leaf,

their shadows 

in a pool

of light there.

 Steeple at Sunrise

The steeple’s

soaring height — 

how it holds

the sun — yet

the sky is

what we want.

From Steeple at Sunrise

(Marsh Hawk Press, Fall 2022)

Burt Kimmelman lives just outside New York City with his wife, the writer Diane Simmons. He has published ten collections of poetry and eight volumes of criticism (including two monographs). He is a distinguished professor of Humanities at New Jersey Institute of Technology. Burt Kimmelman’s books include Parapet: New and Selected Later Poems, and Visible at Dusk: Selected Essays.