Eight Poems

Stars move to their appointed
Stations; flash much brighter now;
    The coldness of the night.

Black moon rising; we had talked
Much the same things as now but
   Twenty years back, years gone.

Coming down through the woods that
Night; finding your door; and you
    Have turned to someone else.

Appointed places for this
Dance; you would not wish to see
   What I have turned to. Black

Moon, stars brighter, colder
Now. Coming downstairs at night
   To search the room, to seek

With only that much light; not
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