In Boxes

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.