Late in the night I dreamed I was to die,
to see through change to the unchanging season
where love is said to live and reign (blue sky
is for the called no less than for the chosen);
my love lay with me softly, murmuring
in sleep of cherished seasons come and gone,
sweet passings which in time soured, corrupting
our hands and lips and eyes. Who to atone?
Between two worlds I hovered, tried to hedge,
but no scheme came, only the terror in
surrendering what I am, heartbreak serrating
awareness to a raw and mortal edge,
and I, dense tangle of transgressions, waiting
for the dark, the accusation or the grin.



Moore Moran

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 20 Number 8, on page 40
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