(A Spell for Mir)
by C. S. E. Cooney
no moon
is rising in this house today
no planet setting, nor sun
is dancing–all is quiet, all is
dark in this
theatre of the heavens
the street
of lights is quenched
stars stuffed under bushels, seats
are empty, the velvet cordons knotted
no movement
in the midnight curtains
yet
there is a ghost lamp
keeping company
with the past
campfire of our phantoms
its own dance, its own dance
somewhere in the abyss
restless colossi
stir beneath cloud forms
dream in crystal coffers of ammonia
beneath adamantine oceans
waiting to rise
waiting to rise, and dress
in finest raiment, leathern slippers
waiting to crawl
through your casement, ring the bell
at your door
waiting to visit your very house
where you have lit a lamp
just for them
C.S.E. Cooney 