I am,
  yet one never complete for
much ado has been said
   when the span of the world
ends when the sky-reaching flowers
  plummet inward, breaking shoals
     of fettered clouds dusting themselves
of the ether.

I am
   never a lie nor the truth beset
by trivial happenstances; there is always
a sound heard from a body's eventual fall
   into sleep's threshold—
the  dreams are all imagined realness
    and tomorrow detests, all the
  muses by the river gone harmoniously
     escaping the hands of standstill time.

oh, let red
   or blue define the Sun and moon,
      lunar harlequin bleeding white
  all the gemini! pounded against the harsh blackening wall of eyes sealed shut
    and far away, i go, to where no sound
      lengthens, flames to reach with
    its flumine hands a furtive life congealed,
      singing where no hymn shatters,
       returning to the Earth with words—
            a made man.