On granite tops
Of a syllables edge,
Under the knife of the moon's
Tips and rustled
Tops of wilderness's troops
Marching in cooler bones
And aching the secretly
Emerging gold and browns
Alleviate the warm regards,
Bland of words
And so many, many of
The mind inherit the season
With feverish nostalgia,
Able to take sin among the
Flesh and cleanse the
Cools the breeze like
A sullen midnight tremble
In the lovers arms
Greasing the days with
An  angels wing
And the eyes grow heavy,
Pure more so than you
Or I,
A cool silence
In the huge seasons
Flowing in the beads of
The virgins beneath
Winter's yelp.