too late at night. in too college-y a state.

The moon turns its rheumy eye on me
and rummages, blind, through the tide.
The little bitterns cry over the isle.
All day the sun was a grubby nickel
sealed in cloud. I've lost that pity I had.
Ah, Hector made his flight about the city,
they grasped Cassandra's hair,
trailing her robes in the dust,
and dust filled the mouth making pronouncements;
I move at my own force on the sea's lip
but a dust-throttled word is on my tongue,
and some rough prayer unsure
if begging grace or anger burns my limbs
like the spear thrown down
that finds the breast again.