by Daniel Simko

It is so. It touches the clothes
with the rustle of leaves under a naked back,

And to sleep a little less now
is a small compassion.

That darkness you see, a land
of darkness, is darkness itself.

To be mad is to be like this.
Prayer is like this: to live on nothing.

Even I, the judicious failed scholar
find no reason for this.

Tomorrow, if I remember,
I will continue to repeat the same.

The way a face is pure.
The way fear is pure.

How simple it all becomes.
Thy deed is done.

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