Replete with grief,
an effulgent moon
pouring cold, half-light
onto the arena,
the remainders take harsh notes:
this is the rock that folded,
this is the edge over which he fell,
there, the tangled mess of gray (green?)
that is the landing place
where peace pressed its presence upon him.
In this pale theater, bent and broken blades
hang heavy with black blood.
August 21, 2005