The old man shuffled into drop-cloth night,
Absolving dark hooded the vacant day,
Soothing his nettled mind-until an arc
Of moon usurped his way

And fixed him with its vestigial crescent,
Holding his eye as if by high command,
As if a fingernail were pressing through,
As if the night was well in hand.

05/26/2012

Posted on 05/26/2012
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