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.