A Glimpse Toward Unknowing

C.L. O’Dell

I place my hands on the glass,

and by this time, this late, all that is left

are glances, between the stars and

the white eye of a wet axe,

the fawns and the trees dissolving in the sky,

and all I can do is accept

the night's ancient arrangement —

the dark there, the light there, tied in,

and all I can hold is the spill of each moment

enough to believe that sadness is hope

but with less of an opening.


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