Moonlight on Snow

The drumbeat of a madman
courses through quickened blood;
blame it on the gibbous moon,
this loss of logic.

The clock’s verse little matters:
not the mundane strophes of the hours
nor the miniscule minutes demanding
something spatial in the midst
of so much mist.

It little matters whether lamps are lit
or stars; the key is memory,
that ancient enemy
of the absolute.

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