Chef Noir

So many things I should have made,
So many wheres I should of have gone:
But darkness isn’t just before the dawn —

As reticence, and innocence, 
And patrimony (in a sense)
Adorn the deer now trembling on the lawn

I mixed the recipe, and stood
A would be chef among the good,
As gifts for those who dwell in doubt, and fear —

But some ingredients I lacked,
The deer have run to safer grounds,
And manifold the echoes now I hear

So many times I should have stopped,
So many angers gone unheard,
Where is the balustrade to shield the fall?

I wake within Gubraithian fire,
And magisterial mistakes,
And one more number that I’ll never call

The kitchen’s still in ghostly gray,
Pearlescing the reflected moon,
The stars are bunched up, safe behind a cloud —

Some pillows and a blanket sit
Where lately you had watched the news,
The outline of a shadow of a shroud

The morning knows, it always knows.
It scrapes out of the tins and bins
Whatever bits of luck are that day’s food —

So many things I should have done,
So many wares I should have sold,
Or given to
The empty use
Of mood

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