its deft reverse its recapitulation
so the lemon slices lurking among
the ice cubes here in my glass reflect
a bitterness crossing the street
thirty years ago and finally
coming to rest on this table
all things mirror one another
as if there was nothing we could
know for certain with this bland
moon consciousness of ours
sleeping through the sunlit days
as if we would fail to notice
bourn in the crescent’s silver bowl
the sun’s dark spirit’s face
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