Autolycus by Midnight
Forgetting sleep, as finding faith in places
Further than an adult’s eye can go,
And slow! No sleeper’s ear could hear her so,
Creeping down the dark familiar spaces,
Unshod; uncertain; knowing want and still
Setting out on tipping toes the clinging cold,
The tabled bier, the black, forbidding fold,
Dancing like a nightcoat’s flapping frill;
To will; to snap unseen the silver thread
That holds her hanging hand; and now
With ruby-tasting sweets to sneak to bed,
Darker than the dusklight, first fruits of sin,
Fat, fallen grapes too heavy for the bough,
Awaiting teeth that break their supple skin.