Sepia wind runs through forgotten hands
Around a fitted frame, beneath a door;
Too like a battlement of local lore,
Too like an estuary of white sands.
And wind continues on and eastward past
A café built by Orpheus to house
The hungry lovers that would look, would louse
Eurydices by looking on at last.

And all to meet a rail upon a coast
Where sits a flower and a god of earth
Exchanging looks that burn the stars' bright feet.
She drinks the inks of valorous repeat,
Where fails the poet's hopeful hand at birth:
Exchanging all the words that leave us most.