somewhere in the dewfields a feeling unfolds. it was a noble feeling, but just a feeling.

ah, but nothing can ever hear us now.

save the fields     -     to you I belong to them.
arrowless voices snake the round room,
but you are wearing fox feathers, saying

“what will be, will be”
“say it is so, is so”

here, the room      -     the empty field.

You know of what I speak.
Space lags. I will adjust time.

and in some blind room I make love to you alcove for suffering
as strangers arriving from the sea, a heap of fragments
and unsettling landscapes      nearing something

and for the first time, the deep heartache that comes from longing.