Something always
refuses. This is
the solitary hour.
Something makes
a cloth of the moon
and wears its shroud.
And someone carries
the memory of a lover
in the broken-back
cold. And if always
we imagine experience
as the brutal chord,
we sit before
this window and study
the forensics of the sky.
I was born, we say.
As we retain
hidden in our mouths
one small piece
of God’s tongue
