The light the light as if there were but one
Falling in less than sphere direction yet
Slithering about the unseen modes formed
And forgotten on the windward side of
Prime so thankful to find us patient and
From the mouths of dreaming giants a cold
Black logic solid converse of shadow
Drips a torment not not sublime in its
Saccharine and relative spite torched as witch
Practice knows while shade defines edges bent
To purpose and teas brew adjacent on
Slabs called less than shrine as if there were but
Chairs to remedy this musical sort
Of lonely men standing left at games end
.
“of lonely men standing left at games end”
-Robert David Williams
Poem of the Month 
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