Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past:
Begin these woodbirds but to couple now?
A glorious mane, a weight of silvered soot:
I wake to the smell of apple wood. An arm
overlaid, a quiet breath, a hood:
a murmur not quite heard, but understood.
A wheeling hammer's axis, near its head
so that it seems to waver as it falls:
a slalom through the air, an oscillation,
a limp in Newton's gait: an imperfection.
If we wake now, and turn towards the east?
A clutter of trinkets that bring to memory
what's best forgotten: a dirty red and violet:
a blurred burst in silhouette.
Walk back, walk back. The hammer strikes,
rebounds. You have but slumbered here. Tell me
what the story was? I have lost track:
only that the hounds bayed at my back.