like days these ours are in moments stilled
the steel of moments
in us them and them in us
their hair is ours
their bones are ours
they are cold and
fantastic
and
quiet as a ship
on an ocean
so pale
and dreaming
its head a war of stars
the damp

light ****** in smoldering
they are the spades of digging
deeply purple blacking soil
on the fresh cut grave
of the small majesty
of last light
telling just behind the swollen bridle
telling the face of dreaming dusted
eaves, the coniferous blades,
of forest young and thick
“hush”