Sabres fell. Arms
outstretched toward
a fallow wood,
we march forward
to the bright good,
the twilit dell.
Lightly glows the dusk.
A smell of jasmine
floats among moored
lives like still vessels.
The floors are dusty,
boards groaning with
a wisdom and a lore.
—April 12, 2009
Brooklyn. While falling asleep.