Stars slip under ebony sheets As the moon's face shines Like that of a lover. An overcast of gray passes In obtuse bulks made denser By their restless pursuit of meaning An infinite jest of circular anonymity. Or perhaps the stirring wind moves them Forward If only traceable by holes within the mass. Holes that bear light within them from a distant past An interjection in the moon's passing If only to enlighten what could have been. Stationary as these possibilities are The current of overlaid cloud gives them motion In the eye's focus-- Shooting stars then All of them The moon's face is indiscernible In this presence Turbid affairs of retrospection in time. Denser now The movement is swift The movement is slow The movement is stillness The movement is pause Covers pulled over heads The overhead mass hides Its secrets A closed door on the light of continuum.
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