The night is so weak it scares me that it exists at all.
It is an ancient wedding cake that has small faceted sparkles.
It has clouds descending and cars alone on the road.
I cast my look to the forgotten and beaten ground,
and I have seen no light that can shatter it,
as it never looks outside itself.
It is death, lost on a snowflake.
From the self-published book of poetry, “On a Drift” (2002).
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