Time & dark

All this time and dark
Buttered skulls and the rooks rising

It was sea that salted and stung us
It was wind that tore the leaves
Mother in the hut
Hunched over the knife and board

I have not come to apologise

When the prospect of thought
Falls behind
When the open hand
Weighs this against that
Your hand upon the
Hesitating hand
(Shylock holds close his blade)

The moon rolled back one night
Spilled its light in fire
A few quicksilver drops only
Clinging to Calvino’s craters
Waiting to go out when we wished it so

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