Work-weary
limbs hurry backwards
To
the earliest and darkest days
Of
candle-burning apprenticeship—
That
plagues the night with convulsive sleep
And
yet dispels the plague
From
sleep-starved eyes—
Gathering
unhurried slumber
With
a child’s profuse eagerness
On
its first firewood-going
They
are early-moon days now too
And
I gather this firewood and gather it
Far
even beyond dusk’s slippery slope
Only
the lunar sentinel crouches
Over
me
A boisterous
bowl of light
And
I cock
All the
staggering accumulation of slumber
In
a bottle only of Alomo Bitters!
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