I Am Clever Enough To

The Moon Slid Inexorably Into Its Zenith, The Shadows Shrivelling To The Feet Of All That Cast Them, And As Rantel Approached The Hollow At The Hem Of The Twisted Woods He Was Treading In A Pool Of His Own Midnight.

I Am Clever Enough To Know That I Am Clever.

Noon, Ripe As Thunder And Silent As Thought, Had Fled Unfingered.

In The Presence Of Real Tragedy You Feel Neither Pain Nor Joy Nor Hatred, Only A Sense Of Enormous Space And Time Suspended, The Great Doors Open To Black Eternity, The Rising Across The Terrible Field Of That Last Enormous, Unanswerable Question.

The Earth Swirls Down Through The Ominous Moons Of Preconsidered Generations.