In a distant time and place
He watched her sleep, he watched her face.
He said "Look, love, the morning comes,
   Arise!"
She rubbed her smiling eyes, and
Joined him by the nightstand window.

It had snowed the night before
With rill and hill and tree transformed,
Now veiled in a silent white
That fell throughout the previous night.
They held each other close, not cold.
They stood and sighed, and folded skin to skin.
She held his hand inside, and hers to him.

That day, night-lovers stood awake
And watched the snow and sunlight break.
But...Oh, will we make this matter any less
Just knowing what came after, and then second guess?

Both brought up in crowds.
We heard laughter first,
and when our crying was the worst,
the others were too loud.

It helped us cry, less,
more or less.
It doesn't mean we loved them any less,
But just that we don't cry much any more.

Upon a troubled night, I thought I dreamt
Of  something moving, twisting, causing me
To stumble. Breathlessly, still helplessly,
I bolted upright. There I saw, unkempt,
My face familiar in my mirror, yet
Just over and behind, my eyes discerned
The figure of some man. He looked, and turned
Away, then disappeared. Upon reflect-
-tion Later I could ease my anxious mind,
Until again, another night, I thought
I dreamt of something moving in my glass.
The figure stood in front. I moved to find
the sight of mine own eyes in shadows caught!
I fled, and screamed: "O demon wilt thou pass!"

I find a part of me produces verse
(well, not verse, not really).
Really, I produce a play.
So, really, the part of me producing verse
produces parts.
So, really,
The part of me producing plays
is part-producing.
The work this part of me produces ,
produces parts in verse.
But really,
It's an inverse play, since really,
the work (a play, with parts in verse)
(Or, really, a play with verse in parts))
is divided into three parts. Like Gaul.
Within this work, this play,
these three parts produce
(or, really, reproduce) a play.
This play, in verse, within this work,
is, in part, an inverse play,
since, really, they produce (or really, reproduce)
a part of me.

The play plays back a part of me -
an inverse play plays back words, in verse,
ever onward.

It's a bit of a play on words, really.

It's partly words at play.
It's partly an inverse play,
producing bit parts in verse with verse parts,
in bits.
Or really, the parts produce plays, that is,
A part of me produces verse and
in part, the verse produces the play.
This inverse play produces parts
these parts, inverse, produce a play,
this play, in part, produces (reproduces) me.

The work is a play on words.
The play is a work in verse.
The work is an inverse play.
But not really.

Caught in light glass stained,
I watched him and her and hymn,
swallow bread, glass drained.

I tried to stay calm.
I heard hurt words the shepherds
never never put in psalms.

I stared at my bread.
It was his body I broke.
That deed done, I fled.