I sometimes take a wayward glance,

A careless tilt to the unlit night,

Where subtle thoughts reach from within,

Where clouds crafted from cotton

Thin out in delicate strands.

Swimming with quivering breath,

The stars begin to wax, to wane, to wax, to wane,

As a lonesome train bellows in haste

To the faded sky.

I find a peace, a careful solemnity

In this strolling rite,

Where a gleaming river passes by,

And a coin’s quick arc disappears.

For the night is filled with ghastly things:

A half-caught glimpse and startled sight.

For better or worse, recollected or not,

I see the sleepless mare and sweetened soul

That stir and dance beneath this moon.