There
are August nights when streams
Of
light can pierce the dark so cleanly
That
they can illuminate a smallest
Spot
very clearly.
She
tells me that she wakes such nights to see
My
face lit by the moon
And
that she studies the hollow
Around
my eyes as if that light
Has
penetrated enough time
To
let her see those lambent dreams
Glimmering
upon the first years;
Those
dreams which youth pursues
Like
Canadian Geese at dusk
Chasing
the moon before it lights
The
ground below them.
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