such darkness is another fleeting thing and so is the bird of your arrival, mine windows receiving bird-song, elegiac – pining against perennial trees, sounds of well-put strikes bringing back to a time not mine but hastily endure,
and light is but another figure posing for itself, a backlash of photographs again not mine but this time masterfully endure all that is mine, being still and keeping what the silence holds with its tumultuous hands, a song once my roof-beams heard but refused to declare: a fugitive frisked out of the nooks of depthless sleep is I, inspected by the wide-eyed gazebo of morning, and a specter whose name I cannot recall, completing this brokenness. I am neither poet nor bard, stripped of words and I, past everything else that makes sweet music, possess no mandolin.