A single bulb, a dying buzz and light
Too high above to reach, too dim to see
But half a handbreadth out into the night
Within the circle, sepia debris
Thin-scattered remnants of his memory
"Again! Again! This hellish yellow hall!
Awake! Awake, or how long can I crawl?"
The buzz again, the lightbulb in its place
But pricking up his ears and turning 'round
The lines of terror faded from his face
Those grainy walls by which the room was bound
Were mute, where from the void had echoed sound
And standing, shedding sheets to stretch and yawn
Without another thought he carried on
"Fine morning," said the fox, fixing his nest
Where on the floor it lay, a scattered heap
The blankets, tattered, made for sorry rest
But Khazemil had nowhere else to sleep
Across the room he set the tea to steep
"A night alone, and still I see the dreams,"
He muttered, "Nothing changes, as it seems."
A house, a room, a table, and a chair
A mother and a father down the row
A gray embossed high-collared robe to wear
A path of dust to walk before the snow
And nothing more to learn, to seek, to know
His breath, still tea-warm, curled tongues of mist
His paw massaged the aching in his wrist
The slanted wooden shanties sighed at him
As Khazemil paced early through the fog
Aligning every step upon a whim
"I don't suppose I'll see the dear old dog,"
Ho-hummed the fox, external monologue
"I'm up before the sun again today,
And father'd punish me for such delay."
It was the moving out, the moving up
It was a harvest day, a harvest moon
Accompanied by just his simple cup
Embraced, abandoned, quiet afternoon
The vigil day had come and gone so soon
Beyond the final village-fence, the field
Beneath the close and settled mist concealed
"'Move out, the sting of parting doesn't last!
Why should it when we'll see you reaping grain?'
How could they be so cold to shun our past?
And why hold me, their son, in such disdain?
'The way of things?' The way of needless pain!"
A cry stuck in his throat, Khazemil keeled
Then twitched, and stood, and smiled at the field
❦