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 LIGHTLESS

                                    Each year the light is less.

                                    We can barely see it now,

                                    the faint necklace of

                                     the Milky Way.

 

                                    The old ones were wrong,

                                    you know with their waxed fingers

                                    pointing up like abandoned adobe.

                                    Yet you know better in your cubical gardens

                                    and half moth-eaten moons,

                                    you have arrived in

                                    handcuffs