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Poetry In this same melancholy love dance, in such sanity of mind,
I have seen this machine trace blood against night
Referred to the absent heart of death's patients left waiting, in the ring of devotion and fractured wing
Forgotten as mechanical, but forgiven as weak arm, staring longley into the sun
For the last world, was left to sink with infant lung, to wash (up) in the shallow
Grow old and wither, with the winter
To be half, or had, in the dollar sense of sickness, to mourn for those too young to die
In which shape do you dance backwards, veins or string?
Limbless but alive, at last
In this same reflection of wandering creation
Did you know god before the echoe of man?
Before the imprint of flesh
Before the darkness of perilous beasts with chiseled eyes
The elegant earth shed blossoming tears of creation
And watched in horror, as her lover wildly grew
