Shiny musical bird, a Swift I think, collapses against the brightness. Its wife
In words loops through kissing notes clapping in the shadows.
Somehow you call me and I wish that I could see your face.
Then, to your unhappy heart, I speak of the coming flood.
We break down, counting the score, accepting nothing on open faith,
Consuming the thunder of bells in our bosoms, welling up unwearied-
Against the certain tide.
Arranging chairs in rising water we start to drink from it
All tenderness is lost and left behind. If we could we find this strangeness-
We would not, would we? Instead we crown ourselves in song and
Sing the dream of light.