We count minutes by the moon,
By shadows across swept autumn lawns.
Turn and return -
There is nothing tangible here.
Who will carry me south
With deathly sound?
Come close in the quiet, the dark,
Our mouths calmer than hymns
And breathing midnight air.
The years seethe and sleep,
Sliding in every direction,
Over the skin you live in -
Lie listening in.
Our words taste like history
And crumble like old bone,
Beautifully strange and becoming legend.
The rest is silence -
A place where everything shines.