A woodland, a graveyard,
Where nature reclaims,
Golden frames awaiting,
Enticing, insisting, imploring
My leading finger’s interminably slow tender crush
Upon my Comrade’s cool crescent curve,
And then, once more,
The hounds break loose,
Coming for us through the trees,
A cataclysmic gathering of light,
As fifteen billion photons rush recklessly
Through seven mystically aligned layers
Of Japanese glass
Then collide and collude with
The tiny electric quadrilateral
Awaiting at the moment gates,
Loyally gathering up
My amorphous and otherwise unreliable memories,
And hunkering them safely away
For long Winter days
Where the sun forgets to rise.
Thanks for looking.
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