THE LATE-NIGHT CANON
It is a far and distant wandering the
mind conjures in darkness : things peopled
with little wrens, tall buildings stretched with
lethal shadows. The flawed carapace of Mankind,
looking back, spends energy in just trying to retrieve:
all the names, all the totems of the wandering tribes,
the pathways to Eden and past and beyond. With every
excuse, this strange coffee-closet closes in, a deeper wrap
for a colder cold. I am sitting alone, like a regulatory miser.
Depending for light on the darkness, seeking the dark fort
a light : every page I can turn has an echo that, somehow,
I am lame enough to just keep reading, just keep reading on.
It is a far and distant wandering the
mind conjures in darkness : things peopled
with little wrens, tall buildings stretched with
lethal shadows. The flawed carapace of Mankind,
looking back, spends energy in just trying to retrieve:
all the names, all the totems of the wandering tribes,
the pathways to Eden and past and beyond. With every
excuse, this strange coffee-closet closes in, a deeper wrap
for a colder cold. I am sitting alone, like a regulatory miser.
Depending for light on the darkness, seeking the dark fort
a light : every page I can turn has an echo that, somehow,
I am lame enough to just keep reading, just keep reading on.
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