The fireside crackles at Lobster Inn
then retreats as the Solar tides wanes,
Embers of truth reappear
as craggy indifference,
silhouettes blind fingers
polished for clandestine tables,
whose singed confessions are
as stricken as bleached midnights.
We befit those restless
from this augural evermore.
Elsewhere it is Raining.