All these holds. The heaving weight of this wheel. That's where
she goes. Step by step in the sign of the well. The scene's
beating about her feet. A rock, cheerful in its wisdom. Doesn't
want to speak, wants to whiztle in orbit, to prattle, close
enough, sufficiently explicit.
She'll weave this language. She walks in a basic scene.
The wind is open. The scythe light in her hand. She's in
laughter and time. The windmills keep sliding, past her.
The speech within the rock is my house. Weight: Indispensible
She's inside the wall - inside language. She forces her way
through the woods till she runs across a clear blue light.
Her breath is breathing. Music arises unbidden. Night-attic
day and shock. White clad wings waft their gentle voices.
Exclamations through fine glass, steel and sleep.
Night is an oven, glowing. Something always shifts this way. A
song is a sword.