We wake, made of silk I wonder at the setting Of your moon-sharp chin Lonely satellite, in quaternary beaming At seance nine we spoke Of the lies told by the dead With their voracious appetites For unresolved regrets Silent now That we directly ask In a falling game Strange dirt gleaming on your smile The planchette of you hands Moving of their own accord Planting joys and miseries In unfamiliar ground To see in glaucoma moonlight What par-blind flowers grow Quiet, but still, not quite Almost lost for words
