we have and have not,
   loved well, milbirghtlions septembering;
it is all for myself to reach deep within
   like white measure of kisses – the girth of such
world in turn, passes on a wily shadow of beforeness,

when all such loveliness before me was
but  a blatant chiaroscuro and not of mausoleums visited by
     territorial hands.

surely, such warmth
   you carry on, ferrying against unfettered waves of
remembering loosely against   the voice   crossing this  side of  the Earth

I can hear it like a flower,
I can feel it like the strove of warmth from the prickly music
   of an unraveled Sun,
I can touch it like the fringes of keen blackness of hair
  that demands silence.
I can bend to its call,  like a bamboo  in the wind
   or the   curve   of a rose,

     the downed flight of a heron  deep in  the twilight.