When,
the being, surly murks,
hobbles, heart-bulb hurt,
in furtive mist,
obscured

when
fields of the falling mind, pine
sight-less in a fog-banked shawl,
lured, hurriedly by nothing
more than fear

-I will still believe, it's somehow, there-

that sailboat
with seabird halos

gliding, dearly
down the dusk

with just enough
to love