The moon cannot,
it has no mercy for the drowned names.
But someone will remember,
yes? The generations exchanging hands.
Only the joys of being mourned
anchor me in time.
To the night
I offer myself, awake and pacing
waiting to let
darkness become acceptable.
Then joy subsides because joy subsides,
its constant unsustainable.
Oh, the universe again,
resplendent in its aging frame.
