I wish the knowing light would embrace me.
Winged or padding
the stars, the earth are puling witnesses.
What should we have done, firing away our fearful dreams?
To you? At me? Thundering: cannons, words.
Silent but tearing loving limbs from warm embrace.
I have been the dullest claw a heart ever knew.

But what can I do for you? Dry my tears with stone,
admit all to view my great carving? Use such ink?
I love and hate your incessant love, monochrome board,
warm coals. An old man is tilling hawthorns
for a young girl. The tender inherit rending spears.
The past is more present than this moment.
I am laying by the fire, soft wood
shuffling, whispering. A soft caressing sensation,
a soft shadow I see forever.

Oh well, I keep trilling: I trill melodies
of crossroads, and one of love, of joy,
and one of sorrowful goodbyes.
The next day I am tilling buckthorn for a girl.
I trill the forever song for the light.
It holds our eyes, it laughs beyond us,
waiting in the episphere.