What a fairy tale you are.
What a shaky cold branch that’s blooming.
What a long ago blue you seem to be
Or distant barkings.
What a twitch you are inside of me.
Our time that’s left is puddles -
This slotted sky is love.
Your hair seems to travel backwards.
And your matter most of alls are
Forever fields of fond of.
Who truly trusts such wondrous mornings?
Who looks ahead through always leaves?
Who folds hillsides into mosts and longings?
Who becomes so much more of me?
Who will believe such wishes like starting
Again and again?