i am going
into the limp dark
where silence recites
a brief candleflame
it is as if these cavernous impulses
rush back like children
whose heads are diadems
and you, their mother of spring’s masterful
hands neither went
nor came
to a dream
of
roses which
trudging kisses smite the loam,
giving them reckless meanings
yet all the same
in death
and in beginning, in these large minutes
your eyes contain
such light which all things darkled
are born anew
with timid
names
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC
i am going
into the limp dark
where silence recites
a brief candleflame
it is as if these cavernous impulses
rush back like children
whose heads are diadems
and you, their mother of spring’s masterful
hands neither went
nor came
to a dream
of
roses which
trudging kisses smite the loam,
giving them reckless meanings
yet all the same
in death
and in beginning, in these large minutes
your eyes contain
such light which all things darkled
are born anew
with timid
names
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