Does it ever quite come out of the blackness,
This fog disguise?
What the sunlight's mask of silver hides
Is no less trapped than a dream,
Whose story tells all, but falls back to its own
Logic, its secrecy in the face of day
With whatever is below the canopies
Where birds depart waving their v's.
However neat and still the bats hang there,
There'll be a hint of movement as they free
Themselves to night — thought will briefly
Become visible — but the horror of how much
Is unseen, of all that must be connected,
Drops down like a compassionate cape,
And we are left again with our go-to revelry,
The irrefutable mystery.
