moon-rinsed,
the air at the window
is now bell-clear,
and even thought itself
becomes cheap
in a world where distant
branches dangle
fresh necklaces of condensation
in scant white rinds of light.
There is no way
to get inside
the alien absurdity of it,
but no way out
of the moment, either;
no point of reference,
no view from outside
of quiet's totality—
and so, for one more
night at least,
we slow our breath, let go
of what we call belief,
and willingly fall
into labyrinths of sleep.
