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The moon's a stained thumbnail over the page,
the latest chapter of an age-old bought
history: it merely reviews what it's
seen before: an invisible foot dropped
a Cinderella's slipper as it rushed
from the midnight of assured destiny,
to be swallowed by the blue and the blazing
nihility. Oh, but human eyes might
ponder (how rapidly it sets!) the wide,
the cool, the moving concept it purveys:
how it has searched, risen high in hope to
pique again, for maiden reality
that it once served, when change was named another
thing: when God spoke to man and man obeyed. |
