Fall past the asphalt
Thro’ the honey bee scene
Dip thy feet within
Naides’ yielding stream.
Thine arms splayed toward Hyades
A grey morn consumes the sun
Rain brings silk to the heat fraught meadow;
For time to touch thy form, it must run.
And thine hair was a mess after the rain.
“Will you ask it of me soon?”
Before the world is found to be concrete and sprinkled streets
“Before my qualms on leaving find the noon?”
The sharp cry of the meandering city
Thrives on slapdash letters, in cheap, restless dives
Therein reside, the silent concerto of our drifting
Where individual voices drown, and no lover's awakening lies.






