it is  continuous there—
a bleak sign of sleepless feeling.
sharp as a rose is cut,
or dull as a petal is wrote out
of peril.
red is the eve
of all eves, eyes of the mayday
making the night weep all blueness
and breaking laughter crudely
there— austere shrill of air
and starkly absolute,
continuing its trill,
all the stars and your beautiful face.