The attic

I was there upon
a four poster there.
Mind touseled
I came to bear
some thoughts from the past
amid a dash of influenza.

And then I came to see in baggage
the memories of truncated souvenirs.
The war years.

High moon I said
high moon lighted
high moon eye
to my moon.

Far beyond the blue mist
enveloped lawn
the blanketed night comes on.
The champagne is dead and gone.
The forest around sensitive sound forest primeval.
Through the panes cloud buttermilk
war remains and twisted cross
war refrains lunatic so

high moon I said
high moon lighted
high moon eye
to my moon.

Your age will most probably
carry away the letters enveloped in carrion.
Vague unpleasantries of the war.
May your son's progenitorship
of the state haphazardly help him to carry on.
God send your son safe home to you.

High Moon.
You're eye
to my moon.