Every night seems to end with me
in agonizing wildfire by the enlightening sea.
And all I have a chance to recall
loses the memory of the last step when I walk the new.
So the universe hides all I, myself, find worthy of holding tight to.
And by my heart’s lake,
the mortal coil pulls the golden thread,
slicing hemispheres
in which there’s no outlet
for everlasting riot.
Ashes invisible to others,
but obvious to me.

Judgmental cry of gaiety—
for them, for us, for me.
In the darkest forest,
Virgil’s gaze reflects
on fate, forlorn inferiority bestowed,
on the effervescent tree.