A Memory of Movement
All the cold words gather
In the memory of a movement;
Where a grinning waits to be upon the face;
Where mirrors touch their kiss
To everything, that anyone would miss.
While we all wish that we could be awake,
Or sleep until all days and nights
Fall far more softly into each.
Like a curtain, we are certain
We know the separation
Without which there could be no journey,
For us to force our way into.
We conceive the stain,
Before the berry
Touches wind or rain:
And then,
There is movement again.
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