The partition of light slides upon the red, pale rocks shielded by the cluster of streams, a fossilized hue of the starlight in the refusal of blustering dreams.
A mere smudge of waterlogged forbidden Arcadia—tasseling a present vanishing in exile a solemn midsummer darkness prowling the streets in your memory.
A moment of sense fragmented in the swallowing undressed fruit—the dewy sickle—this pilgrimage of fog. The shadows glaze in the silence, compelled by not much left, burdened by entwining brightness, and I know not much left. Beneath your woven, shuddering soul, only through the sand-soothed persimmon when I gaze in a pathless gate, the light blinding every wind, the pale river sates—pursuing consciousness,
The landscape remarks of sun-kisses deep onto the grass, the horizon emptied in phantasm, and my mind is split and fallen, wielded by the dream-scattering lights by the fresh lake. I am now awake.
Ignoring freedom in the poverty of decision, in the teeth of spring, then a different morning comes starched in flowers and eternity; flowers on the dirt floor dissolve across the branches of winter; the river in the dark cold avoiding light from the black trunks of the tree, and only clutching a dream suspended from sanctuary, turning cold gurgling shores. Sadness howls like a left-for-dead coyote—or like a river bending in solitude;
I remain helpless as the shadows lined on the brick pavement, sitting low, fleeting the mind like lone cattle, coiling on the frontier, becoming remote to the unspoken roads as the wind rolls from a deep sleep.