Your fog's darkness dims my simple pin of light Come in at pen-point, unrolled in inky leisure, By black defining the whole wash of white-- By dividing nothing taking measure 5 Of all's unhampered everything and more. What we are is more than prudent store Of facts, of events unscrolled in order, Sequential ticks of a circular clock That round on nothing's zero once again-- 10 As if to begin again were to begin, Or to swirl a wand around undid a lock That never did clicker for a key. So your fog's a face that hangs half-lovely And I a lighthouse loom round its majesty.
From the collection "Supposing Roses"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.