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The still
nights of
this longest summer are
Kind in their
fogbound
separateness,
Useful for
measuring
time in which
No clock or
calendar
holds sway.
Lights fade to
the
obscurity of minds
Whose edges
have been
sheathed, gone to
Seek truths
that antedate
their vast ambitions
And to surf
their
medullary midnight lives.
When I
became a sleeper
in days, a child
For whom pain
was
banished only at the whim
Of others,
their notions
of suffering small
And full of
brief
remediation; when I was
Given the
night watch
and instructed in the
Keeping of
others'
dreams, wispy clouds of
Fanged rage or
reaching
desire unrealized;
When I became
a tracer
of souls in recollected worlds
And followed
the veins
of their days across the
Backs of
weathered
hands and faltering hearts:
Then often in
the
fog I wondered why I could
Hear no voice
at all,
comprehend nothing of
Fate or future
beyond
the flow of rivers and
The flash of
dawn
cracking down the alleys.
But
mountains would
come, and the clouds descend
To them as fog
to
the sea, leaving me to pace
Duffy paths
through
new nights and old summers,
Salvor of the
unsalvageable
and dreamer of
Calmatives
passed
to dark-bewildered eyes crying for
Some tiny
light; there
is often peace in the
Mists of this
final
endless season,
And I still
reach
quietly into the abyss
To take the
questing
hand,
Now when
time's murmuring
is hushed
Enough that I
can
hear and recount
The whisper of
photons
against the fog.