The Ancestors

When the night's coming and the last light fallsA weak child among lost shadows on the floor,

It is your listening: pulse heeds the

Of fore and after, wind shivers the door.

What masterful delay commands the

Breaking its access to the living heart?

Consider this, the secret indecision,

Not rudeness of time but the systaltic

Of ancient failure begging its new start:

The flickered pause between the day and night(When the heart knows its informality)The bones hear but the eyes will never see-Punctilious abyss, the yawn of

Come once a day to suffocate the sight.

There is no man on earth who can be

Of this, the eldest in the latest crime.