It is the nature of anything to go on changing
Where am I, after here, in prism-light
Arranging voices
                            Which arrive
        In whispers
In tremors of goodnight
The moon
                Isn’t speakable or here anymore
It resembles an idea
        Reflected, in
                            The way
                    These whispers
        Until the night
                                Is broken
& The spoken
                        Is unclean

Mark DuCharme