We come full circle in the darkness
of a remembrance, beginning
somewhere ahead
at a table were I leave my poems,
wonderfully unfinished and decaying
in the after-light of fading summer days,
forgotten in passing we'll no doubt
wait for them, returning one-hundred fold
in a kind of blister wound of the brain,
coated in gold and light
burning unlikely bright in the night sky,
casting a shadow across our being
as beautiful as the sun.
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