Did you hear it? Calling?
Sensing the need in me,
Out of all the possible mes,
Pour itself into my eyes,
Pouring, giving me, a soul?
To cherish?
To keep?
Cleaning, cleansing, like a baptism,
Like an old invention,
Rediscovered,
Me all the time,
The me it discovered,
Crafting, whittling, from the probable,
Did I hear it?
Crafting, whittling, from the probable,
The me it discovered,
Rediscovered,
Me all the time,
Like an old invention,
Cleaning, cleansing, like a baptism,
To keep,
To cherish,
Pouring, giving me a soul,
Pour itself into my eyes,
Out of all the possible mes,
Sensing the need in me,
Did you hear it? Calling?

Listen carefully, always.

An artist's sky washed with whites,
And cobbles all of shuddering light,
Base camp reached as dawn's kiss rayed,
And whisperly we all did pray.

Station 1 with relief and bite,
Ride forth with furnace-heart to flight,
As caverns and fog truncates the day,
Cross-fingered worry at last is swayed.

Sun's frosty whisper splits the night,
Lantern's the gate through the mist and plight,
Morning's fields wedding dressed
Ready themselves for wintry vests.

High now, Station 2,
And, my love I now see you,
As grey ward-light devours the bay,
We shine as one without delay.

Trees and heather huddle for warmth,
Strewn as petals strong and staunch,
Mosaics form from ancient of days,
En-wrap our love, in which we lay,

Ether moon illums the fading mists,
Watery eyes are closed then kissed,
The prayer inside is prayed,
Place me in the halls of day,
For we have loved always,
All along our way.

The thought foxed its way
into our
brains,
singing a soliloquy
of the
jaguars' horses,
Riding the surf
on a
droplet of water
meeting wind's waves
and
bayonets enslaved October-drown morning's martyrs
once held
palms and fingers
now stenched
vapid and lame.

Crow un-written unconscious
as stealth tomcats before the announce,
I spied the ghost of Wilfred Owen standing
on Strawberry Hill all 4th of July,
Roosting and fire-eating photography
Staking retired relic-colonels
waiting and waiting-wishing for
thrushes witches and snowdrops.

But, and there forever will be a but,
a still-life cadences to crumbs
Until the ghost-crabs rustle their roots
At stations to stem the green wolf
and mascot the bloods
that used to be nations.

Red carpets for trout blackened as theology
Dreams moon a world rat-dancing an apology
Howl, howl and sob great wolf-psalm no more Black's breast gleams at the door.

The apple-cored night expended rising swifts
craven the moon
when men walked these ruins
telling of the when
roe-deer falcons yelled to reign
and the song of the
Earth silenced its face
locking light and mouth in a dullend place
Switches are still the building is vacant

even rage has left.