50

I speak most deeply when the sky is black,
when the lightless air constrains the senses,
when the biggest presence is streaked by lack,
when the hand in front hankers for fences:
Where the painter must contend with the dark,
despite memories of the crisp landscape;
where willow trees are shrouded in the park
and pied, fresh petals of flowers escape:
As my vision recedes, my insight hears
more darkly, deeply the joy inside us,
and I cast off my face, throw off my fears,
and I scale the fences that divide us:
Under the gentle moonlight, I'm a ghost,
dodging communion with the haughty host.

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