The sea burning, the heads of blued Thistles nodding now, You are drift Ing across the dry grassy Field of perception. Above me, Humming with the Softness of hands in mud, Words wing and land, Clutching the branch of hope That this is finally a sign. The ache between the dunes, tilted Towards the future, and darkened – The song buried, sang back to me By the whispering reeds. I have a hope that I, too, am moving towards the salted River of woe. My word covers the flame And my word holds the flame – You and I are these silver metals, Lead, mercury, cadmium, Submerged in corrosion. We are out cold in The moonlight and shining. How the shine of night lasts, More than a memory of even A lamp, for this is pure stone light, a Spectre against the stretch of darkness, An image seizing alone in The thorned meadow. We speak a vision, Speak a future into existence. Like a burning.