From my skylight I can see the stars,
the darkness between them is nothing, nowhere.
In a sea of time in the dying light,
a moonbeam, a leaf’s edge, the bark of an elm.
And my skylight shows the space between
the black rotting leaves, the rotating stars
I’d be so happy with my skylight,
the infinite peace of imaginary rooms.
Secrets and lies that bother me endlessly, anyway.
A secret of which I’d rather be blissfully ignorant.
Anyway, I can see the stars, the moon, etc.
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