The walls codify what the white-peaked vista
peeping out over teal seas, allowed to pasture--

somebody's transient, blooming, ranging thoughts.
A heart leaping, often imperceptible, both of the world
and of us,-- we need to pen the loved.

So our wants, they are already turning to concrete.
A path sprouts up from where you plant one foot,
lightly, on the green, ever-reaching growth of plants,

white cities climb outward, a garden of footsteps
from where the hill drank the sea and enjoined
that meeting with a rose, a temple.

Desire must be willing to want its own outcome, death.
We met on the ramparts of the new city of which
whole lives are built up to find. And now?

There are no ladders from top to bottom.
The sun just setting is just the same as a wild poppy,
hanging in the green whose outcrop already is beginning
to disassemble this stronghold back into hill and sea.