Study in Black

Is there here

       a boat’s mast claiming my lonely night too?

                                                                             I see the stars

                        can’t be called hanged, exactly,

just hanging down,

                                     not over emptiness, but honest ground,

the moon trying the black skin of this river, black corpse    ...    

                                                                                      But, even plainer — 

       I wonder if these words, my words,

will ever bring me fame.

       I have my age, my injuries. They limit me.

                                                                            I’m like some spook bird

I know, solo and roped between

                                                                where rotting happens and a sky.