An offering is tossed over the arras:
Bright curls of steel waylaid by breaths—
“After the chastisement, I fear such appearances”-
in the late afternoon. So the telephone is hung up.
A bright yearning for sleep leans over the threshold
and knots beckon as they loosen in the chill. Ah!
leather would never perform in so vagrant a manner,
nor would stars keeping touch by their blue cementing.
But something falls apart—it is evening, like splinters
onto which we, even spread out for our attack, step
in the half-light of our controlled and half-consumèd wish.
Moments
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