The truth never sings at the roar of night,
When she comes to my salvation, but neither really saves.
Left in the midst are pieces of two,
Your checkered mate, soul’s breach.
I wonder how the flowers on your dress never dance away
In high heaven.
For the proximity of her encompassing
And I start to ask: what are night’s words?
If the seasons split, and still no trace of her humble shadow,
Just a vestige note, curvilinear writing
And an empty wig.
I have searched the end of the purple carpet,
To see what your breath left,
If only you could show me
How you lived.