I have tired of matter, yet it
matters not : yes, the dim light
of the table is before me. From
overhead, some fixture drips.
In these waning days of a time
enraptured, caught by lineage,
something falters. I seem to
be, without focusing more,
unable to discern. And, no,
again, it matters not.
Effusive to this point, the dim
point - a point of malediction,
in fact - I glaze this heap with
a careless anguish all my own.
Something else shines : another
light, shining back at me.