One thinks to say, I thought to say the name of the thing,
with words, one thinks to say, not merely the way others say a thing
in hand, grown quieter, my hand completely or its new endeavor,
is common failure. Some inhabitants of the city
form a shore, one wakes to flowers, another
sandalwood, one to a human scent, a lover or the unloving,
souls arrive in gold and depart ordinarily. It could be any month,
was it, leaves cling-to, necessarily in the balance.
Freedom rustling in the light, your friends are many
and to have fashioned a net of your life proved wise,
the dates being made of lime. Like today, peeled to reveal a curve
of lips as one speaks any clear word, one among others—unimpressive
to the eye while the mind endures a thing in stasis.
