1982

My eyes in 1982
Did not see the blood drying in the inkwells.
In 1982 the moon was nothing
More than a phosphorous dream
Of imaginary light.
Nocturnal shade, a penumbral light
Of blind gravity.
These eyes of mine in 1982
Did not witness the little boy’s crucifixion.
They waited patiently
In the backwards spin of their innocence