lights without source


I’ve rung in the Easter bells of Notre Dame

And sloughed by damsel wings in the gold of a pond

Some marks are made by knives, some by lights

Does death eat itself in the life of our nights?


I’ve pictured at wretches in flesh and in thought

Sauntered my heart through the ill gotten plot

in the bog of our eyes stretch an arm-length of reeds

where we reach for the light in shade’s memories