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.