a room full of grandmothers,

night-gold —

espials of eyes
syncopated.

take this thread and fissure
me love-struck.

tenderly the walls are white,
the mood: all malaise of trees in autumn.

Christ's redness in hymns
**-hum angelward as rain

brings a discalced memory
close to sand by shores of repeated waves, where the gull tirelessly
          punctuates
the water with its centric beak.

all youngness and beautiful
rising like cunning equinox,
slow auburn of eternities commits
  to angels denied.

sharing something a memory would
espouse in lips dry like tropics,
  looking down on familiar abandon,
reaching out with their hands and making
   no sound, felt yet always, in tender
     hours of night.