One moment he called
And another he was gone
Did she sit still
Because she could taste
The wind that carried him?
The level arch of her tongue
Impressing moist upon her pointed finger
A cold sensitivity to direction
To intentions farther
Than an eye to mention could tell
One moment calling it perpetual
He raked a garden of his chains
'Til his roots did sever
So that the gusto might plant him
On some higher plain
Some perception culpable
Of categorizing sense
On a palette of emotion
Nothing more
A neigh mere in the late light of field
A missing bore
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