In this habit of rotting
the root fails to make do.
Wide blueblack straits
spied from the shore
recall this darling
aporia of mine.
I’m to be given thus
a crozier, I’ll wander to meet
an elder grown so wise she’s
taken leaf;
and on that barrow
spirit will slip free from body,
quite azure.
On that barrow
body will see the body
in summary,
put hand to his throat as if
a sentence had caught there.