What befits the care of day, the soothing of shine, the coughing
Up of justice? The gaping hurt might turn slowly for a tad or the
Lashed out noose harp awhile for a hallowed transplantation.
Yet cusp of night meanders to find you in hallowed light. Might
You care enough to dispel myth of right, couch of blight, sleight
Of an unsought hand? The care of day is optional for some time.
So opts the blight, you would dare to say, but the limiting silence of
Caressed speech is an advocacy that repairs itself, an intonation
Of vowels that is mouthed in proportional misery giving minimal
Relief from pragmatics and irrationals; the parchment of soul is
Once again vetted for blue matchboxes and olive leftovers: the
Symbols of dreamsong, catchment of afterdays and beforenoons.