by Christine Adams Beckett
The beat, which unruly hearts do break
in obscurity of night, for all time’s sake
the moon, who has robbed the day of light
tampers with shapes the eye does take;
thieves and lovers, in obscure dance,
twisting bodies on a blue-beamed trance;
curse the fool, our unruly sun,
arrived through curtains, sans chance
to burn the skin and squint the eye,
eclipse the dream and quiet a sigh;
for nothing dark is desolation.
Solid rock, in absentia, tried:
guilty of nothing but deflecting light
and mirrors Her love, with all its might.