following a line
in something it holds the night
this thing of the cat and the wind chimes
from somewhere left of the rising moon
the furtive leaves of all autumn’s denouement
the book closes upon a new book’s opening
as one poet sleeps the night shift takes the reins
riding the storm of the black steam it boils
as a liquid colder than absolute zero
atomic clocks frozen at that point
when emotion suspends belief and
what is wished will be
and will be until the sun of the neap tide
hides all in the hollows of the deep rocks
waiting for the turn of phrase that will
reset the clock and walk over the grave’s stirring
and all hallows might be
well just might be
tonight
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