Day turns over its hand

the imperfect fame

and weak applause

of dusk follows into

nights cover

where careless fears

settle within a

harvest of solitude


the sound of breathing

entertains the imagination

of rebels  in hiding nearby

while in the black beyond

there is always something

like a vanishing accident

or an unused discomfort


above there is a

half heaven

and a full moon


winds unwind into









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