The tie only: how I want so much
to allow for it, the wish to know
where, in that face
which is an absent
match, to the spirit.
So that a restless time
prevails; my spine arches
with the wish that's here
as itself a note a sign
of who they are.
And are, sitting in all the hours
of love I must translate, out
back to the place
where I feel it, as a local thing
and want now
to allow for:
to manage between the hands and hope
of the voice, that's it, there must be
a voice here also, lent
to but not taken-
since even from the edge the resting
waiting inshore is
travel as knowing, the quick
placement of love as
trust: at the source
And so here, it is the others I most
take to, like stones
in the mist, in
the voice.