A light says why. From all the poor prying. Again we attain a more regal posture--small bird accompanying slips between our whim. Where will we flicker, loose as two feathers from a wren's back? Gone, do not brood for all the hands that miss you. They hardly hold. Don't wait, one who thought a dark eye could save you, like night with its black paws curled and gone to sleep. There are only two names to remember, Loss and Pleasure, crossed in this field like no man's borrowed light. Call the far-sighted foxes to the launching. Call the small deer scattered in the back brush, swift as flit. Contingency has arms and hands and wasted faces. And a body, shrunk and scurvy, built to burn.
Laughing below, the unimagined room in unimagined mouths, a turning mood speaking itself the way a fulling should overspilling into something's dome, some moment's edging over into bloom. What is a happening but conscious cloud seeking its edge in a wound or word pellucidity describing term as boundary, body, violated bourne no sounding center, circumscription turn. Mother of mirrors, angel of the acts, do all the sighing breathing clicking wilds summon the same blue breadth the sense subtracts, the star suborning in its ruptured fields.