On a Night Never Seen
Sweep up your shadow
But you can’t turn back.
There is no other way
Through the black glens
Or the lens of an eye.
A keeping, a stride,
Into episodes that arise.
Equidistant:
The interior egg
Until cracked open
To . . .
Brick, a literary journal
Brick
PO Box 609, Stn P
Toronto, ON M5S 2Y4
Canada
Works of art are of an infinite loneliness and with nothing to be so little reached as with criticism. Only love can grasp and hold and fairly judge them. — Rainer Maria Rilke