Can’t mouth the name. Won’t embarrass it. Won’t
and don’t. Know only static and handfuls of dark.
Found windows in his dam and looked for doors. Would run
with fingers on the glass. Would think. Would think.
Would raise the empty years and draw the word from under.
But found nothing. Found distance in nothing. Did know
his sleeping torn away. Found toxin. Found flame.
Was awful din. Lived God-lost boy and suffered young.
Was starry-blood. Was worn by hush in the cradle of night.
Did still love. Did joy. Was quiet twenty-thousand worlds
gone by. Did fall asleep beneath dead oak. Did wake to palm
and California wind. Had farthest come to feel it breeze.
Did nurse his faith with gray and wailing heart. Would live
whose ghost like flies in spring. Can’t speak it. Won’t start.