NEW CONCLUSIONS
The whistle of a new air had colored upwards
the small half moon. Cheap, like a scuttling,
cloth curtain one buys at an auction, it was
already falling on its rod. Moon and star.
And sky. Everything together in darkness
conspired. Tiny Winter night, my aims are
so great. What is that flashing before me?
Shooting star, delirious from Heaven,
wrapped in circumstance, and shedding
its cloak in the midnight air.
-
If I was tradesman, I'd build me a boat.
As it is, I will walk to the ends of this Earth.
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