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
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