If this light writes
the ale of fortune
stripped of vine
can it be the tongue
of merriment
or the eyes of stars
squinting at moon's
steady rail ?
But basking the lighter blurr
grapes the stilled haloes
that ache mornings wince
and yet can the long-sighted soothsayers be
those who shrink the printed
blink of days silk
just to preen
or flint
and spark calumnies draught
to shudder in
the human tithe of the past ?