2649

2648

2647

2646

2645

2644

2643

2642

2641

2640

2639

2638

2638
The quality of the future
Has the timbre of a voice awaited
Yet unheard;
Has a motion and an hour
Where in a different place the taste
Of salt, the color red,
Become where I am
When I get there.
It is the touch of a breath
And the weight of a sun,
Yet at this moment,
Its quality's none.

2637

2636

2635

2634

2633

2632

2632
Reverence is red with desire
For a lover's reciprocation
That has no breath,
Yet is by me breathed:
In the longing is its consummation done,
In my solitary,
And love's bitterness is my portion,
Unpartnered by the other's voice.

2631

2630

2629

2628

2627

2626

2625

2624

2623

2622

2622
It's an improbable hour
When I realize where I am,
Not by this path nor that corner lit,
Nor under any sky,
But within a confine wrought
Myself upon my skin.
Yet as the sun that lesser angle makes
To impediments of its light
Am I by my longer shadow pulled,
And the path and the corner lit
And every sky there is,
Within this confine's brought.

2621

2620

2619

2618

2617

2616

2615

2614

2613

2612

2611

2610

2609

2608

2607

2606

2605

2604