Have the poets failed us? Waxing or waning, a slight sliver of moon incises its own haiku in a night sky. It is simple and there. And also always there will be the fearfully loved umbra on the other side of the visible, as where distant traffic slopes out from the county of the horizon, on into caesural fields, to ceasing quiet. And after the office buildings have emptied, as done earlier this past week and typical before a holiday, “Never mind, it will be ready on Monday”. A downtown ghost town. For this, Sunday evenings will then remain about the same. At some point, dim while life is proceeding. If perception of the unlit backyard is understood without its boundaries, a new music arises and falls with no one the better for ever knowing that such a music has ever existed– and it is yours, and theirs, and mine.