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SINECURE OF MOONLIGHT |
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by Charles Carreon Poor petals, You have lost your blossom -- Unfortunate leaves, You have lost your places on the Tree. Upright, upon our feet, We walk among the fleeing hordes Blown by the killing wind. We find the flushed corpses of blossoms Rotting in wetness. Our eyes reflect the color of the sky, We are wrapped in the blanket of the wind, We stand and watch the exodus of clouds, Escaping over the horizon. The abandoned shed, tilting slightly on rotten beams Affords sweet, if tenuous shelter, The rickety walls showing splinters of light -- Nail and knotholes where the wind Ventures probing fingers of transparent blue. Here I could live On a sinecure of moonlight, On a stipend of grass, Receiving remittances from sparrows, Sleeping in old hay, Reading the scraps of outdated dailies. Watching the course of prolific summers, Inhaling the splendor of moth-studded nights, At last you might discover a road out, Appearing like a mirage in the north wall -- Passing through, you might find yourself At last among the migrating stars.
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