whelps the icy slope climbing
it is an all ravishing review, already lengthy
and it is your hands, her hands
the nervous haemorrage, the fleeting fancy
the virgin's maids gather herbs, laudanum visages
Harpocrates' finger stops time
as roses, as cattle stray in the gray humid fields
a crown in arid grain
blindfold me into the earth spilled emergence
for we might outgrow sorrow
for we might grow sad
it is filth in the night, owls following dots
the golden filaments interlaced without a stage
drawing unclosed circles