All suns burn cold sky, adrift and standing,
tethered down to eye by moons beaming.
To lay my hand on the chamber of night
and soon your moonlit breast, to die.
Wild light drunkens the empty hearted
bending with soft hands the space behind our future
Swift as a dream, past a single star,
I laid hungry in my rooms like a poppy field.
Now shadows tremble fresh upon the face
slowly as the dawn will come past the night
velvet as we suffered at the low tide
into homes built by the imperial feet of noon.
