They are such mundane things, I know.
From their mouths emerge
the same faded
flowers into the raving
blast of a meridian sun.
Bright, actinic streams
embrace the desolation
of this frugal and torpid
moorland:
resounding spirits turned
into some capricious shadow
against an unknown column.
I know, I know,
all stain is a crossing-out
with the shape of another swan
about to beat its wings
and open its song
without any memory to remember
the silence that was shattered.
