The peaceful shepherd
dozing against warm
wood of a pasture
fence.

Where sheep live like kings
in a peasant's square
protected and fed
and led.

The shepherd's kin
cries weakly - but why
are you not in the
world, living?

A crinoline reply
floats above the sweetgrass.
Where would I
be without them?

When he was young,
he was broken and tired
with words constantly swallowed.
they'd crunch and snap in half - those
sharp consonants.
The vowels were another thing
altogether. Their soft flow
down his throat filled his stomach,
right up to the top until.......
he gave them up fantastically.
Presently, the words assemble on the
page, stacked in neat rows.
row after row after row.
But the white ice of paper
and coal of ink
do not
emote.
For by the face connections construct themselves.
So now, he is not broken
but he will break again.

glimmer of silver
floats up the aisle
finally comes to rest
silent, not sleepy,
words reach the ceiling
secrets and dreams confessed.

Steps in, no footsteps
darkness presses in.
When eyes adjust to
the shadows, there is,
in fact a golden beam.

The night before
the light was on.
Stained glass shone on
the floor; The stars
fought to come in.

Only two shadows
were making noise,
but not often.
The darkness did
not stop them; he
helped the words come
out.

The second night fell
and the shadows kept
up in the corner.

8 times a day
I think about you
that doesn't even
count the time
we spend together.