Burning slowly brightly inward,
As the rain in the weather,
Of another singing manifest,
Nothing brings its dragging time,
Tied to olden calamine,
Grasping thorns for loving lost,
Morning in which casting,
Models of the brimming summer,
Broken slightly twisted lightless,
Sunken in a way unchosen,
Mixing of the passions likening,
Bell chime to another,
Nor powerless or fingerless,
An ocean without depth,
Created within sensual space,
In layers and of sense.
Rowan Blair Colver