Under her brow the snowy wing-case
+++++++delivers truly the surprise
of days which slide under sunlight
++++++++++++++past loose glass in the door
+++++++into the reflection of honour spread
through the incomplete, the trusted. So
+++++++darkly the stain skips as a livery
of your pause like an apple pip,
+++++++the baltic loved one who sleeps.

Or as syrup in a cloud, down below in
+++++++the cup, you excuse each folded
cry of the finch’s wit, this flush
+++++++scattered over our slant of the
++++++++++++++day rocked in water, you say
+++++++this much. A waver of attention at
the surface, shews the arch there and
+++++++the purpose we really cut;
an ounce down by the water, which

in cross-fire from injustice too large
+++++++to hold he lets slither
++++++++++++++from starry fingers
+++++++noting the herbal jolt of cordite
and its echo: is this our screen, on some
+++++++street we hardly guessed could mark
an idea bred to idiocy by the clear
+++++++sight-lines ahead. You come in+++++++by the same door, you carry

what cannot be left for its own
+++++++sweet shimmer of reason, its false blood;
the same tint I hear with the pulse it touches
+++++++and will not melt. Such shading
of the rose to its stock tips the bolt
+++++++from the sky, rising in its effect of what
motto we call peace talks. And yes the
+++++++quiet turn of your page is the day
++++++++++++++tilting so, faded in the light.