II

Statues forgetting to crawl into death from the balconies
And battlefields. Love
From the battlefields. My blood went to breath
Like a younger poet, who made the dove
Crawl into a handkerchief. In the face of the poet, it’s important to track
Which features are your own.
So age has brought lace from the sea onto your face.
Say past
These infrared trees, lay darkness sublime as stirred melodies.