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
silence.
Roger Singer 