Praying hands rocking slowly
Like dulce evangelical feet, like waterways of black capillaries
Like propulsions of old Chinese calligraphy, where a
Terrarium of moss clothes me afresh like mother's hands
In banistered sanctuary behind the transparent curtains
Is my lit à la duchesse, where I turn to
An exiled cyning, a frail snowberry; yet
Fluorescent light off the bottle blue me naught
I hop between the frangible branches in wintry sublimation
Enchanting my magic to self-emollition,
So I again become a partying revanche
Fearing glee on the senseless night
.
