Having / inherited this current form
The woken hours / What is seen as waste
I wondered how they found / my limping / tongue
I want to begin this story where it ends.
Would it be fair / For the man to press the switch / Of departure?
FOR WHOM AMONG US HAS NOT FELT HERSELF a CIPHER
Is this tower the chanter / of the sky’s pipes, or the dry syrinx / of the dead bird of the sky?
You have my word on it hand on it /
a book a note a dying sun behind a cloud
I had /
a love. A blue /
kite untwisting /
the news: yr dead, I look /
at the page, grow /
broken at the root