To a watchful moon, and the blood of first azaleas after sudden snow in April, and sleep in the lighted darkness between her breasts among the scent of green lemons. No dreams except those of children lost among dreaming of other older nights, no home either - just the silence of his eyes and deep breathing that she is a witness to, and this waiting for words that he doesn't say, this man, strange and unknown, sometimes even in the tenderest of speech.

Voice's shadow that needs rescuing from The gang-press of too many voices All intent on listening to themselves -

This is always the case, the din In the head, on its wheel , persistent Like a hamster - to pay attention is

not too difficult - except the occluded solidity called the Self that keeps coming in the way - the all I that

Like a thunderstorm keeps flash-flooding The more darker lava-like substance known as the Soul into voice's shadows.

I still wait for the heft of those slight notes,

those flurries in spring like cherry blossoms falling.

For whatever reason (is it the lambent swan I saw?)

absence of that traffic today like a weight on the heart.

Trees are enrobing themselves again, and no one I know here

rolls up their jeans like you did in that evanescent season.

You could write to tell me that, you know. But also know you won't.