And again the tiresome pall
That jumped you going to some setting

You've seen the rest played out
In the reflection in the water before you

Dust breaks in the constant now
Handles this like a faded palimpsest

She asked you goodnight
And told you how you were

A tragic kind of effort at being holy
Was the shaking cross in their hands

Rabid storm of which will never cease
You on your humble jetty making sense of life

You've asked the setting shaking dust
Handles effort like a rabid storm in their hands.

o.wilks

kind model

I see you see no puncture in me
(You're an eggshell I think, or I think you're the perfect shape of trust)
you're not misguided in that,
for one pollutes the other with all the mind's eye cares
to project onto them.
We don't need to stare around
at the barren; not when you've all the fullness there
in that heart-nest of yours, that timid lacuna
swelling with a searching that's pure and all corruption's cure.