Someone will cross, kiss as if it
   were rain and tough stone as if
  it were love,

and all futures stir, taking prescience
     away making all wounds dumb
   in foretelling, time taken like an orphaned
 child from abandon

the frivol of rescue is the promise
     of its danger

making nights stranger than they were the
   first time, room made bare and wider again
with its shy deceit of furtive silence

  you, conversing in that moment of sleep's ravenings

the terror of its lightness: the frothing sea reaching for salt, circling the toe for words
   left in tongue's misery, clasped and irretrievable like the vanity of naked principle
    rushing like tides in between
   bone-spaces;