This sublime sad night, beguiled yet unruined,
welcome to overlook worn underneath,
occasional poet in listless attempt,
sounding out words as a phantom bequeathed.
Wreaking astronomy, told in old clothes,
stuttered occasionally, melted on Sundays.
Prophets laid out in bidden romance,
a martyred conundrum of
glowing ashamed, mid-puff
revealed by token embrace.
Early persuasion rested abreast,
caught by a rapid-drunk moment of
moon, pieces of notes fell impatient stars,
as discipline tears such gentle hands.
Lancing the doving moon, grackles cry,
taking flight from this forlorn roof, to gaze in brief,
yet shivered reflection, away from the doving moon;
from such broken glass found in sweet silver meadows
as twilight darkens its swaying light,
grackles cry and beckon occasion
away from this poet’s room.