These days I live for the light of the moon,
shun the rays of the day, find myself waning, 
though you'll think me waxing here near-
philosophic, removed from the poetic
arrhythmia I stutter, forgive me for I know not
what I do, in the full glory of the round orbs
all around us but not about us, where there is
no horizon to rise above, no sun would dare 
frequent this occasion, this milieu, this misery
deserves nothing less than the drone of 
the pavan to which they dance, a macabre step,
one-and-two-and...tread upon for vantage,
to better see how one is outdone in the 
creative of evil, each night their will be done, 
on city streets, in foreign fields, behind doors
wide open, stick their tongues out at the blind, 
scream to the deaf to put words into the mouths of mutes, 
never to touch the sensitive, except with fire

In the light of the moon that I love, is a stark gray warmth 
amid deep blue, I pray for perpetual night, for with 
it comes unbridled hope, astride the unfulfilled outcome, 
not knowing whether breaks the day

cc: Michael, Chagall 2022