On the skeleton of our need,
why the horror of the leaving?
The folding up the white narcissus,
darker blue, the moon is white, the night an even hue.
Theses sounds of bones cracking back,
the moans out of the night, crying, bitten.
I wonder what shapes they'll force,
what tentacles they'll grow?
Pride swallowed,
in the rich galled turnings of my throat.
