veridiction:s

If for nought the sun
comes stale me swoon
from my dull eyes’ bays;
simmers awakenness
in my lungs’ tangles;
sieves my day into
there way and there vain,
—
for less my teachers
put me to night’s coil,
which is where my light
trembles, weaving
clouds vigorously
(though not past cotton,
where lovers tainted
maroon the gift of
my fast rooted past.)
—
But we’ll meet at dawn,
we who’ve arched over
The murk of dozen
drowsy illusions;
we toil on our routes,
sinews wail the while,
to lay woven gleam,
unabated all-warmth,
sun-flooding breeze,
to those lying late,
dormant in their wool,
(for the beloved ought,
in seamless divine fuse,
hold right that day ‘n night
light relays straight for nought.)