Not So Hidden
the dawn turns slowly away,
puzzled as a curse
by myths that lurk in its flaws:
harsh ironies
that ants and worms and even highest birds--
even playful children--
never have to see,
a sort of beauty whose eternal flame
always brightens, even fascinates,
yet awakens harm.
plumes of comets
strum the starry harps and lyres;
and yet sweet night falters, too,
swings a sidereal countenance
past so many scarred ghosts,
a silvery candelabra in its hand,
and moves on.
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