speak, also you— the night is cut and the moon is beheaded;
a mound of silence collapses, outlasting the lucid hymnal. the clinking of glasses, the guffaw of the gull trilling on no cypress.
god has meant locks and keys.
chiaroscuro is the form of oblivion, river is the voice of the dead: the throb of lure-call poised at the hollow of the hand, this evening.
there is a sadness that is drunk with something a lasting recall wuthers without a name: the wayward moon hangs, the guillotine of stars spreads black blood on the tulip,
drinking as if there is no water, only that of wine and something that has brought us together, separated in the evening
our life, pithless against the wall, engraved there, unnavigable writ: sundered, washed ashore.