raise high, the roof-beam
mounting the fiery stream
   burning the windows, burning
  the death-devout silence,
    burning the disquiet on the pyre
of ourselves — darkly halved,
    lightly complete; the operant
rose is ready to roam the immortal garden and no petal will perish,
    no moan of thorn will be heard,

  raise high, the roof-beam.
  your lifest breath and all that is not,
   emerging supreme against all
smallness and rotund, no bells bellow
   the bickering name, or the defunct
subterfuge of O God dancing to
    sew His name augured. raise high,
the roof-beam the monolith of your
    body's never-ending groove
waving me across all the world
    no sojourn could annul — once
mortally blessed and twice naive.

  it is our rite of spring, what the wind
wields a strange horror's sound summoning a dark-trilling raven.
  waters princely kneel in the sheer
dark's afterthought when my clothes
    fail me evermore. it is our life
singing separately: morning, and the divided evening. the knowledge of scepter is passed on to the ignorant
  now all-knowingly removing all dress
and the glint of crystal-moments.

  raise high, the roof-beam, o luminous ire
   fulgent light and our foetal coil
      an angel to whisper an arrival
from the fall, the roof-beam, raised
      high forever.