I'll let the rolling skies

squeeze out my blood

and lay down in a field of deer.

Squares and fettered domes

will not melt all around me.

The sun won't tell.  The pines

won't shed their ridged bark

in anguish.  But the long legs of the dawn

are agitated, and will have

their stirring song

in any weather.

It's just the stillness of her shadow

now

and my outline gone

from its departing measure.