There is a song bereft of shore, where
The boat will not wander off to, where
The sink of rock will not listen to,
Where the dark of your moon’s moon is
Ready to fly. “When?” you ask. That is
The time for the forbidden to lay low.
But I seek to mend the roof of snow, the
Guilt of your sun’s sun, and the plough
Of snow snuffed with mud. I seek to rend
The wow, the now, the stilted, stunted
Crew of yore. Your friend, your deep pockets
Of lore will dare to stand by and linger.