The Rent in the Screen
Sweet mildness of the late December day
Deceives into the world a couple of hundred
Cinnamon moths, whose cryptic arrow shapes
Cling sleeping to the southward facing wall
All through the golden afternoon, till dusk
And coming cold arouse them to them to their flight
Across the gulf of night and nothingness,
The falling snow, the fall, the fallen snow
World whitened to dark ends. How brief a dream.
--Howard Nemerov
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