Dear David,
I do stand, a lick, is it, the point left solitude fine, how nothing wise or knowing, in hands soaked in blood divine? How a child writes instructions ease, to a demon, is it, I, who flees? How nothing temperance, the friend, tilt passages to grow, and shadows sow, and heart tilled company, in lookback greet, the sheltered face, fresh to find, and with a path high this country butchered, to the root, I prefer, the look, I the stash, my eye to one path, last, in a bed with company, friends and lovers, and grace, in happiness meet, till death, I do piece, the quill, the brush, I do stroke, in blood, to choke, in meanings lift, yet sieve, how a child has no meaning, but hands brushing time, and lives, tilted hush, how the meeting divine, yet one sip, is it a wine, or a graveyard, my time, together to show? How a tip, a poisoned chalice, make, the grave, all open, shall I dig, to take, or head stroked high, all the shovels with wisdom shy, or careless greet, a bone picked low, how a princess, has poised for a final puff, in greeting guidance know?
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