The moon, which has long been my confidant,
has grown tired of my wistfulness and my complaints.
A faint afterglow on the horizon—a light
like distant sea waves—surges and recedes
into shadow, into oblivion. I look at the dizzying immensity,
the panorama of stars, with its circus/menagerie
of constellations, and think: The universe is a glass house.
One slip of the foundation, and all comes crashing down.
Meanwhile, crows caw overhead, their beaks bloody
with the flesh of some nameless dead.
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