Oct 27, 2012
Gone
And the glue
which glows
and feathers of
distinctive hand
to be darkened
and heard in the
gloaming of hard finds
the crystal of ice
and watered spice
to be fire in this
twisted hand
the arch of back
and arc of silver
what limned
the tree of old
in this so good
of gold with it
wistful in the air
and the summer night
with motes of gold
drifting in their hair
to be taken by
and over, under
the sky around
and this the ground
and to be held
with the pink of
flight. Crepitate
in the hark of
last call to come
the fact of light is
to be gone…