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,