All summer long,

by the gradient rasp-light

of our dark, dune-begetting hands: your stones,

crumbling back to life

around you.

Behind my sheer, raven lid,

one early star,

flushed from a hell of briars,

rears you up, innocent,

towards morning, and peoples your shadow

with names.

Night-rhymed. Harrow-deep.

Near.