By | 1 February 2012
It keeps coming, that night in the woods—
a strip of light among the trees,and each time the moon a different color.
It haunts me too.

It’s as if our small theory of happiness
had been irretrievably lost,
stamped out
just as our father stamps out the fire.

And it returns, electric.

Perhaps this, too, is a theory of happiness—
imperfect, damaged
as all our ideas of perfection are.

A cold clutch of unholy fear
marring that small lick of sweetness.

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