Dark city, bleak and neat,
wild as a wolf’s paws, orderly
as a rumpus of demons,
bonfires ablaze upon the towers –
I’ve the view, of a lush fir
veiled high in the sky’s shade.

The mind is a bell in the steeple,
she rings each stoutly night;
here in the loft of silent rumi-
nations, my bud blossoms, loud
in thundering lathered waves –
go tell it on the Puget Sound.

I, myself, whole inside
marc that’s meat, awoken by
the needlings of shadows –
bon voyage! Unfurl and begone
across the slender rasin line,
my quail hair sliding out of sight.

Let it be I, lissome and lone
that wends the stars out to sea,
hoar-water of salt, lay be-
neath in held breath, no sway
until I arrive upon the bank
of dawn, my toes, so so so cold.