The sun out of bed stood
Blinded by a waning moon
(of certain without humility, of himself,
As he always, always brows down)
Close and near inside sleeplessness
As if uncertain he’s a nighttime walker
Blinded by a waning moon
(of certain without humility, of himself,
As he always, always brows down)
Close and near inside sleeplessness
As if uncertain he’s a nighttime walker
Of a microcosm inhabited,
He'd glare it, under heavens
Or he'd loose a tide of sand
Either a shore, off which he would outcast
Unwrapped distain on a dusted shelf
Or to fetch shadows from a castle mound
Out of this stormy invention he's righted
And what's righted is ever left
Where suns are foggy spread
As he slept all day
When hell is as deep as the storm line
Isn’t it then shallow, as damp his sandy stain
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2016
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