Moving through motions of a new moon casting
out light from the evenings’ outlasting
eclipses of the old dawn’s son,
annealing the wounds and severing one
final respite, a cool motion’s star,
shooting ahead of the lurid beggar.
May your tidings be tithed, your angles be winged,
for in this life there are many more geometric things
than you thought, than you liked, than your eyes tinged
with the catapulting of wisdom, received or fleeting
of a new dawn’s path, a new star’s shine
casting out the evening of the old son’s rhyme.
Drawing out the curtain, cutting cloth fine,
you’d place them into boxes, never moving time.