2.1

Many tiers make this world pillowed on stone
many collect in their fear to strive.
Yours the face aglow in the cold,
precarious thriver in the song-stung dark.
With glance and lip you collected me.
Where are you? Alien hip I catch you out,
refuse cheshire blazon, unpronounced tremolo.
Now to step into the prints you left.
Winglessly now to embrace your air
on tiptoe, phonetic and misprized answer—
know you me? Tease this mystery? Kiss,
cats, for your dear dog am I, better angled
to see you by night with eyes straight upward
and by your leave to praise and praise.