It always seems to be night—our floating
Through darkness, the clouds parted like
Curtains woefully. We take to twilight
Like children on the road back from
Somewhere, past places that are scarcely
There even in sheer daytime. Lacking
Trysts, travelers weave their own bare
Steps out amongst the forest-cleared
Conundra. Returned to the stars
Nevertheless, by which other days are
Summoned, other evenings, other far
Commencements. The most alien
Abundance will be there the self-same
Familiar glory.
A turning homewards with relief
At darkening, a drowsy summation
Distilling the final essentials.
