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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