The night, that dark and rancid cloak,
contains within its half-drawn claws
a certainty I cannot match,
nor merely approach; my fear prevents
Darkness wants for nothing,
save my peerless pride
that so often burns down to hubris
and faithless self-promises
written distractedly in flowing water.
Now I rarely leave my house
(the fallen leaves of April
commend me) Not,
you understand, under fiat;
but to scrawl my signature
across a blue dome of sky.
I allow that this too will melt away;
like chromium in a blast furnace
or my own simulacrum,
it will have met its match.