dawn rose punctual, on time as usual for a minute
What speaks only through crookedness From one place to another
The roses are not fretful. They become A symbol of how it has gone;
clouds do not dance with the earth and the land until they are burdened
How odd to have faith in a circle Open enough to uncrowd us.
Even as it empties now, Countless happy accidents
About the Lakes, there is quietness, a sense of dislocation;
love spins between two bodies, top & bottom, the beautiful,