I only caught a glimpse

of its bizarre magnificence

one moment before

the orange moon

drawn behind the curve of an Indian

mound, that mists of gloomy

August staggered all the way down,

became by nearly half obscured

in the nethermost regions of an Ohio sky—

practically supernatural

looking as above so below,

the monolithic K all beaming with

uncanny light that means groceries,

& no one around to share in

what then seemed quite like a vision,—

the hornèd-serpent still breathing

in wrought psychic prison,

under the feet of us helots toiling

by thread of force in unknown wars

against ourselves,

us lifeless things

unsure inside

of what is real.