To be loved is a calamity. Love will try to see the words before it's finished

Speak to me from where you’ve flown In some buried terror, Upon a motorcycle’s Proud chested bark, A great noise, Your djinn, A great silence Is mine

Klieg light, Pan in, My shadow, Leaning Through an open door

Speak to me, Of matters propensity Not to be

Softly, Leaves, windblown, descant In oblique oscillations I can calculate The rate Of their descent, Listening To a dry throat’s melody And all that I am Becomes a skin Shed, Summarily

And yields it’s becoming To the next,

Scene

And the now