Beauty asserts the blood and what the trees seem to know flowing their golden arc of Autumn leaves downward/ I notice amid this waiting as Tolstoy had-soft veils of artistry or finer leisure, (a grand monster in shades of mocking lament) or a simple distraction which covets the light of eyes beyond this darkest silence... Fly far past great stone majesties, ancient faces crumbling beneath the weight of the deceived. Black, black birds, in a turn of words, young blood, entering new darkness of a fragile hallway or beings entrance/ I’ve known endlessly this rapping upon our great doors beginning. We stand over-seen beneath the cold moon turning; (that stone in the sky with so many faces). Autumn 1994 (Revised 4/01/2005)