Bugles Shake the Dawn
Moonbeams spun on cobwebs
laced through with dew.
Daybreak bugles
then burgles
as light enters its brazen domain.
Old Horace
wakes from his untidy cot;
an uncertain pause, then:
carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero,
for cobwebs, like tomorrow, are frail
and this day is a blade
to seize as you may.
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