I clutched the crumbling night shade’s swinging string
And clawed another veil precluding sight
I’d underestimated everything
The dismal lamppost gave off feeble light
The early morning breath and hanging clouds
Meant ignorance, and nothing changed for worse
Despite efforts, the lifting of the shroud
Shall not occur, no worth left to coerce.
It is December when my father’s axe
Completes its work and falls to restless sleep
It itches for its final animation
I, one of many children, felt the cracks
Upon the windowpane to see how deep
I fit her into my first real equation
August 6
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