what it meant, first time, felt,
the night blacker, moon daresay zither
of birds asleep somewhere
stone whetted by air, lingual and sharp
with reticence, that obscured
     thing of beauty at the edge
      of forget— ah, our memory
  that picks the derelict, so much is truer
    in abandon: tear-shed, stifled, watching
  the word dart through the carapace
       pulverizing a sensible universe
tracing the line of shadow
        immaculately awed.
    inward gush of blood as always
    and a smile feigned,
  running across the turgid avenue
     burning bright, the rebel,
             fading out.