The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.

I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,

I’ve got the children to tend The clothes to mend The floor to mop The food to shop Then the chicken to fry

One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,

When love is a shimmering curtain Before a door of chance That leads to a world in question Wherein the macabrous dance Of bones that rattle in silence

You drink a bitter draught. I sip the tears your eyes fight to… A cup of lees, of henbane steeped… Your breast is hot, Your anger black and cold,

Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city

She came home running back to the mothering blackness deep in the smothering blackness white tears icicle gold plains of… She came home running

Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone

FOR DAVID P—B The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle,

We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of lonelines… until love leaves its high holy te… and comes into our sight

We, this people, on a small and lo… Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way o… To a destination where all signs t… It is possible and imperative that…