Tick moon gorging on blood from the sun
proceeds to suck dark the impervious sky.
Blushes under scrutiny, slowly winks, shutters half an eye.
Blind to waistcoat watches, eluding expositions…
Slicing its oyster along, along
the incessant speculating tongue. Far out
novice stars, newly born, flicker excitedly.
Dim television drones on; ‘new initiatives,
forty wounded, fifteen dead’.
The Virgin kneels to annunciation, accepts
a necessary puberty and the cowl.
Darkness in the grace of yes.