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The Night is King
Roger G. Singer
The language
Of darkness
Lay half exposed
On fallowed fields,
Where cold smoke
Circles ankles.
Breezes fall humble
Without a high sun
To twist the sky,
Like strong hands
Strangling water
From a thick cloth.
A death of quiet
Settles on the
Stars open stage,
As a slivered moon
Melts in silence,
Pleasing the night.