Seen and felt, considered yet –
the open eyes of an inconsiderate state –
Mute, her voice never returning, but ringing forever
In the heads of menial, partial, tangential lovers,
Their psoriasis-claimed limbs extended in dearest gestures
Though flowers will dance
my hand extends to know them,
The glorious tears which kissed formlessness!
Like mopping god’s floors
with peerless regret.
There can be few things precious which do not die.
There can be few things precious which cannot live.
This, the most spiteful truth,
the burning pitch in my chest,
knows the time it keeps, though quiet.
What is the morning, kissed of winds and the vapors of love?
What is the dusk, purpled with memory?
What is night, when we cannot see, and have only hope
which brings us terrible reminders of damnable agency?
To any far point
no great thing shall endure yet-