Black Colt Vesper

I lay my dark and spiraled finger against pure and corded wildwood, In the wailing current of the rich wheels of wilderness, Before the sonant vesper of dreaming by a worshiping colt, Shielded from sheaths of stone by a tree marked in enfolding moss; The flashing tongues of rolling air in fluent, black, and breathing flesh, Smoking in its morning cloak of great, weaving draperies of fog: Steeled ink, lashed still and damp against the awning jaws of dawn. And from the deep comes soaring the melody of waters roaring, Suspended in elephantine glory, in masterly paintings of old quarry.