Each second the earth is struck hard by four-and-a-half pounds of sunlight Each second Try to imagine that No wonder deep shade is what the soul longs for, And not, as we always thought, the light.
No wonder the inner life is dark. Sounding, and sicced on like a dog they all go down and devolve Vowel-dancing, hear-sick Hoping for realignment and a space that won’t shine
Unlike the October moon, Apached and blade-dazzled, smalled Down the western sky into Ovidian intersect with time and its ghostly renderings. Unlike the leaves of the ash tree, moon-treated and hanging on For on day longer or so. Unlike our shrunk selves, dripping like washing on the line.