Forehead spread, primly kissed--

the crushed gentleness of a sleeper

who's walked wakefulness to ol'

silences.

Made meek by mad sways of logic,

so much day to be had mid the weak

grip of the hour.

Always the more, always the less--for

having knelt to what's unspeakably spent,

sign upon sign sealed over.

Bound by the luster of preciousness, a soppy

flash in mesh.

Something therein cries: furnish the mark,

that I may kiss it.