Morning, Noon and Night

Morning, Noon and Night,
your memory beckons me,
the feel that is the hard hand
that points to the hours of your desire,
for me.

I hope.

Mourning moon that's bright,
an orange that bloated eats the horizon,
no farther from me than your affection,
no colder than your last words,
to me.

I pray.

Now that you have gone away,
I hate, with that intensity,
of hyperion dawn electric,
that shivers away the aching hours,
of leaf swirled wind unto the dawn.

I watch.

And seen the cleansing rite,
of November dawn,
that pierces veil of gray,
and finds me lucid this first time,
with nothing left to say.

I turn,
and your ghost vanishes from my memory.