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Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Nocturne: What Thing

The stairwell holds you in the light
The moon let slip over the sill.
Now remove yourself from the thin
Sample of air in which you’ve been.

Behold the Night! A secret chill
Sustains her silent chords. The slight
   White tremors on the Earth
      Craze the frost
   Into mute chinks of mirth.
      Night is fast

   Falling and shall uptake
   You in arms widely awake.
   That she knows you best,
   Let you contented rest.
Then, when she lays you in the brake,
   Her privilege to forsake,
Let Dawn say what thing ye shall make.

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