Discovery

By Roy Doughty
Written 4/10/17

Two hours from now, near dawn, the moon,
Half wasted, will rise, very late, and be chased
All day across the blue-bright sky, ignored
By every one, but the sun, which will seek
In vain to embrace her.  This is shame, writ-large,
The essence of sickness, the sky that shuffles
Vast, intensities of darkness over our sleepless
Heads, through a night, whose primary symptom
Is its interminableness, its one unendurable
Mantra the vile promise that each minute
Will seem like an hour, stretching us from misery
To misery with the phrase: On and on and on
And on and on . . . all of our discomfort screaming at us:
“Escape!”  And so we struggle, like a panicked
Animal whose movements merely tighten
A razored snare.  It is here, just here
That we find the opening — the sense that says
“Lie still, and spin the thread, the inner thread
Of fine and endless gold.  And so we spin and spin.
They are so tiny, these filigrees of preciousness
Ascending our spines in intricate elongations
That rise and fall and rise so placidly.
What is happening to us, that darkness, deepened,
Births itself as light, and weaves from our
Weakened body this spell of glory whose very
Ephemeralness is more imperishable
Than garish, boastful day or ancient night?

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