The pattern of dawn is damp, its window sill Went looking for the lock that clamps your whistle. The brief reminder that you, I and the tamarinds Are galloping a rhinoceros breath, a singe, a vote. The sill of dawn is cracked with the skill of the Numerographer; the bate of your breath is wile, Is reminiscent, and is a styled shade of indigo. An eye to wind, an eye to the waft Of wind, to the gulf I dare to bind With words, with verse; no gateway owned. The false pin distends an articulate poesy, An occluded littleness wanting to rub soot In its eyes, waiting for an expired license To walk on ice, to feel the rise of the blue.