there are worlds underneath words swathed inward, swirling from rondure of moon.
of all that i have loved, you are the only one living
here within the lining of my skin, or thinning dermis of turpentined walls, same as the ponds have their curved silences, i have nothing - a river bled of its source, living in wet verses.
what the turning of days might bequeath you, as cunning as the mayday of evening with its susurrus, is what brims over diminutively, a glint of star.
i believe in the empire your love spurned from all that is ruined, drained of their excess. how i have loved to trail you, across the crisscrossed roads and receive such fullness no purer than mine:
all your sweetness that is for me, the implacable honeysuckle and the dew of mild beginning, i believe them all breaking loose around me, perduring still, lorn and born only of visions all yellow and filling up trees so as the assault of light spreading maps through the sky, looking for its home.