There is a cold
that all know intimately
when fierce the thoughts
roll on and on dispersing weeping,
and crowded
the empty bed,
a steer’s mournful groan
like music, repeating, repeating, repeating,
too simple, this étude
the soul practicing
its death.

And I
And I walk
to the Valley of Shadows
and back, carrying the water I found there
in my mouth, to not swallow
What I yearn
What I yearn
an act so precious
the birds jerk their wings
in alar ovation
as silent and unsteady as me.