Mirrored by the tent-speech

of our forty-dark, alodial-hued

next year—

the images,

ground in the afterlight

of eyes, the wandered

images absolve you: (dunes

that whirled free, —scree-words

shuttled

by the grate of sand, —the other

glass-round hours, redoubling

in remembrance). And in

my hand—(as, after the night, —the night)—

I hold what you have taken

to give: this path

of tallied cries, and grain

after grain, the never-done-with

desert, burning on your lips

that jell in violence.