Saturday, September 11, 2010

Moonset Plaint

The past, a mortal snip
of hibiscus as big as the universe
rolls back like coal from endless foam
-- nothingness makes a noise
of wet stones crackling.
We fall to the voiceless,
the unexploited land
that fills the space with secrets
never to be known
-- that's why they call them secrets.

A hanging hand
that soon becomes a cloud.

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