Moments fade without ever knowing

each gold blade building the appearance of things       one waving curl

backburn of red tint       your ash brown hair drives my hand to touch it



what I had hoped for                 a companion who breathes into           holds my hair

under the straw             and thrusts it aside       makes room       makes less room



us within something ordinary

two needles

under all the dead grass

the aspect: silence rings through disorder

white cruciform fish at sea in a tea cloth           finally

I got no balm from saying what things looked like