left in the yard that you swept and cleaned.
There remains no coat of fallen leaves
blaming the wind that deceived them so.
Permit the last breath to anchor you
as the frail whirlwind stacks the weeds.
Submit to the weak strain of temptation
bottled in the corner of the abbey walls.
Hesitate no more for the crude air rebounds,
chases you up from the yard to me.
Run, run fast and fierce through my hollow,
to my cradle of sinewy arms, pallid skin.
Here, in the measured pace of building yarns,
We dream of a chaster, soulful tremolo in life.
This song, wind-strewn and prostrate to you,
Gathers note after note, fife after fife.
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