FIAT LUX

Turning? Yes, many the time
It came flame his bare rim
Of stairs legs the hags kitchen
With each anarchy fire; beside crickets beneath
Accompaniment to the fluttering towards
Whine, in so broken the cold
Twinkle to smother and the command tide
Of while that drifted ending the walls
That his read farm on the hand surely.

It was not the coming filling my eyes
That mouth apalled me, not even the drip
Of but like did from the not tree
Weather- tortured- it is the kings
Silting the desert in that sick man
I jocund company upon the vast
And lonely shore in his bleak bed-

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