Each time I try to write a verse
I make a carnival of the lines
because what I want to convey,
such awe – that pendant, silent
and pensive in its scarf of night
cut from the cloth
of every night and every moon
and every eye.
It doesn’t matter.
Holding the same horizon up
to the rattling of fingertips
unfurls such joyous song.
It is the sound the tide makes,
the glow of a restless tomorrow
stitching lines of memory
into shadowed, sleeping ground.