His bright eyes burned in mine:
I took him for Lazarus,
And though he did not speak
He claimed me as a brother;
To walk with him in his abyss,
Just lately dreamed,
Where his bright eyes in mine
Did burn.
(Oh though I walk)

He took my hand so I could feel
Such sickness he had known;
I heard one heartsick song,
Sensed I knew every note,
Each drone, each semitone,
That drew all sickness out.
(Oh comfort me)

His hand in mine did shake,
Or mine in his
His bright eyes burned:
To say, if truth may come to pass,
No truth may covet such abyss.

Lice-laden, fresh from sea, upstream
I swim unseen - disdainful of
Each biting hook or curve-clawed bear-
Under the waterfall of words
That would define me, drag me down
Their turbid stream.

I do not feed, except on words,
So slip through every shallow;
Water's weight I slide aside,
A silver blade that slivers gaps
Between the lines:

Then in their closing, leap above
Their spume, in my imagined glory,
Briefly made real, but captured only
As remembered shadow of bright light,
The way an eye remembers light
That flares, quick!
And is gone.

These words dissolve and wash away;
This end is not my ending.
I have swum safe through
And found unsullied pools
Of my beginning.

Oh to be wise as Croesus
Rich as the sun,
To have each raw-hacked word
Turn into spangled gold;

Or even worthless lies,
The chaff that flies off
To the winds,
Be silver pieces in our palms;

Then every word our tongues
Trip off, take form
As pearls, or onyx;
Opal, moonstone, jet.

Such rich lodes, all rough-hewn
From rock, our touchstones,
May reveal a Judas,
Kiss-deep, in our heart.

Storm Eowyn has passed hard by, and in
The park, the wrecks of trees, shipwrecked,
Are shattered
On the unsuspecting land, that wears
Disguise as turf-clad shore, and battered
Bones left high and dry, by unforgiving
Tides of wind.

Beyond, soft lines of hills bookended still:
St Mary's spires and old school towers,
And if the storm had shifted them, then only
They could tell; now pointing at the carefree sky,
That has forgotten every grievous
Gust, just resting lightly, blush with pink
On weathered yet forgiving hills.