Partially, your truth spoke. They’ve nearly carried it all away.
You and they.
Those winded cedars rose to the sun on boulders.
How could they be louder? Buried feet may not be winged.
O’ Lover! it ran downward, its carving grew.
I stole it from you, for you! The scent!
I’ve begged it wash me from you. Anoint
Surfeits of evil.
Ghosts! Shepherd, listen, “A wish is induced
by a sudden change in the wind’s decay. Shall we
to the water’s edge?” Go then, bathe in what’s left.