On the gloaming surf of the dark shore,
I lay my abled hands on the crimson darkened porcelain glass
On the shadows of warmth, etched from a pale glistening scar of an ivory white that blooms in miry winter
And I trace—pressing against the folds and hems of skin that caves in pearl, frail ash,
Crying out, nearly deaf, “Where are you? I do not see you—Where? Are you even here?”
It was a cascade of warmth that makes me forget the flares among weeping memories,
Gushed with a stolid eventide on the pale, slick trees with ripples, secular, in mundane rains
And frozen was the currents of the shivering white honey wounds that implore centuries
Of dew on the tongue of soft, tattered snow, and I cry out, kind one, do you see?
(What of the broken harvest of the autumn, and the rolling downfall through the burning river?)
And I rest my hands on the twilit moorland on the river’s expanse as I plea
“For the love of God!” in a tunneling light, haunting laughter.
A thousand stars, and I palely wither bygone to the crest of the harvest,
In the dewy lilies of the dream and I saw fallen streams, east of the basilica,
And the red exedra—it was none I have seen before, the circular garden
Was roasted in the dark wings of the sun, oh dream!
And to behold among my own, distraught, among the pavilions in a field,
And I possessed a sweet sadness as it whispered, unrevealed, to me
“The ghost of a voice, unlike grief, and it opposes the rippling rushes of the wind,
And it was youthful—gone but honied in the silver of a dream with a voice
That was mystical as the bright star that swells beyond the massif—prescind
The bridges of sleepless sorrow among the moors with a bitter cold,
Don’t forget your own words as frosted as the trembling moon, (perchance with a cry, descended in the early pearl fog from the lancet window above the balustrade),
And you’ll rest at night, ventured in a citadel and palsied fit—and awake to remembrance In a sleepy, dainty moonlit room.”
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