What strange weeds the winter leaves us here
in the stark sunlight after our lusty cheer.
And with what wondrous clarity the mirrors shine
and show the one that was, against the one that's left behind.
I can't see, but the clarity aches my eyes,
through these transient passages wove with immoral cries.
And we weave and wind our parts and thine
just gamblers come to meet
in a place where nothing lasts.
gallagher
7 September 76
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —