Ever tire of passing torches to the night?
Burning long the fringes of thine image
Masquerading hushed sleep of death
Read this humid day
In eyes having met to absent prayer
A fruit ripe of its last nurture to breath
To follow sweet silent nothing
Thy holy ground
O deposition of thine emptiness
Wanting grip the magnolia scent
Off suburban rooftops
Sundried stretches of concrete
Pale the glittering beckon of profound boredom
The steady rustle of an absent wind
Cellar flower wrought to vine
Its climb to fermentation
Long the wall
The well of cellar wine
So called are drowning in the age
Just waiting for the stars align
And might speak an endless phrase
Slight too divine
That might dare to speak to Him
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