who can speak to the strum of yellow
dirt but river-thirst?
every turn of heaven-stroll knows the
cost of beginnings
and yet it browns the word-wisp, the
the torn-lisp – we speak to this strum,
yellow, this breaden stream striven to
breach the word –
Breaden. Had to look that one up.
Superb poem. Too densely airy to say.