The Falconer.

For a journey from low to low over high a river only needs renewable energy: sun and gravity as the skater on a perpetual ramp. Only death stops the circular talk into the hole in the black wall where I saw the misses at the wishing well and their kissable soft arms. So young in my mind it makes the years in the past short remedies to wait for the long next. These sheets cleaner than mine make me long for another word unhampered by machine defection, the same as yesterday, but as good as a hawk on the gauntlet of a man; a timeless promise before the altar