i am going into the limp dark where silence recites a brief candleflame
it is as if these cavernous impulses rush back like children whose heads are diadems and you, their mother of springβs masterful hands neither went nor came
to a dream of roses which trudging kisses smite the loam, giving them reckless meanings yet all the same
in death and in beginning, in these large minutes your eyes contain such light which all things darkled are born anew with timid names