A dark dream, a flood.
A circle — sin, penance, thoughts of penance.
Why must shame devour everything?
I think of the other bodies.
Do they bury themselves each night too?
A dark dream, a flood.
Can poetry save anything?
Must it?
This long night beside the candle —
can I let it be,
free of the weight of darkness,
the ruins left by floods?
Moonwater 