I thought I saw In the dulled cement Of your sink The reflected ire Of death’s autumn moon The fading red Of haloed leaves, and last summer’s fires As if the light Had slowed to a dirge But, your windows were opaque Rippled glass, an upraised sea The spilled chalk of erosion’s residues Just me, and a hand-sized moth Tenaciously still, against a drunken tide Knowing, I am almost dead While you disdain Our silent worshipping
