The wound becomes inward like the pink moon
after a little rain. It glows and then becomes
red as the blood and the wool of the wail
dangling white like a sheep in the wind.

And this thorn that now curves in your breast;
you will not bring to the garden
nor to the throned light.
It lies at your breast
as a bone of some lost horse.

It will not bring Light to the growing mooring-post.
Nor will it exalt in any way the twining winds that move
in the night.

:: 10.31.2022 ::