The living jewel rises in articulated voids of absence;
my heart adores her — in all her forms and gestures.

A storm of wings flutters down from the upper darkness
— what, so far above me, is shorn of them?

I ache with questions that no ear entertains,
visions no eye can discern.

Here, along this river of stars,
held alone in trust’s diastoles and pulses…
the black bees of time,
transforming my anticipations
into their strange and alien honey.