There is no reason for the wind
to maneuver

propagate cold in this province.
sullen this progeny when they declared

it so. The hue of it stark, dispersed.
What the hands pass on

as something with limit,
an azimuth reached.

The found body in tow, what season
limits this chance? This serene boy

catching up with a sullen, walled-in image
handing over a bent shadow

to knife this life. This economy of utterance
for I have no duplicate of your town.

I wait for it to arrive in this segment,
when time becomes impossible

a task to endure. Falls away, never settles,
searching balance – grasping what you speak.