Good Luck To You All.

Or there within its other dark cloud,
the beacon obscured at base, but giving
signature at tip, of the sign which would
disturb, green and newborn deerspider
stumbling to stand unperturbed, no,
a single oracular spark whose thin
breast eases into night from night
it knows best, and travels in this
behest, a fine imitation, of which,
the data of a curse can be known
for all time, yet for a limited
place, a white that is immediately
transformed into an inkling, a
thingness scrambling to come
into its own mind, a hieroglyph
of which its equal limbs are proud
and knowing emanates, emanatal,
M notes all in quadrants, or by
pairs, nothing repaired, the
dark cloud hangs as a stone, or
something almost anthropomanic,
the dark amorphous form, or foam
of formlessness with a single
crowning star, the burning line
lept and leaping out, continuously,
from a burning point, or origin.