Scree-rails, rust,

remembrance: the no longer bearable, again,

shunting across

your gun-metal earth. The eye

does not will

what enters it: it must always refuse

to refuse.

In the burgeoning frost

of equinox: you will have your name,

and nothing more. Dwarfed

to the reddening seed-space

in which every act

rebuts you, your hot, image-bright pore

again

will force its way

open.