Friday, July 16, 2010

stopping

A fingernail moon rises above the black lake,
a Cheshire reminder of mystic deeds in ages past,
the slow bobbing of my boat, the gentle dipping sloshing sounds of wood in water,
the complete quiet out here, silence untouched,
where I let no greater thoughts invade,
a protective cocoon, a sanctum, a bier.
All interactions with the world are as whispers
like shadowy fish that emerge for a nearly-missed moment
and are quickly engulfed by the still moonlit ink on which I float.
The womb of my birth lies far upstream, in a grey dawn of hospital lights and birth pangs,
and my childhood is merely a warm feeling of lost summers, whose details are washed out by the night that surrounds me.
My future is a boundless unmoving horizon.
The stars are missing.
Details are washed out by the night that surrounds me.

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