When least we knew our house as breathing
will—
the literate part will say gutted. And guess
at, as
autumn foxes left what cries
grapes in quick frost, the mansion's
budded left. Our will of bones made with
what left look.
Children in sharp white
shuttered beyond speech became our gate to a
still
dirty, storming world; it will by their
still-felt despair
speak the tatter.
Picking up for these, we out above what is
know aureoles there—once
spirit-smeared—blank.
On clouds we never had spring, never gold.
And what of it?
We children of, we look as if and much is
left:
our bones, the hill that saw; the windy were
of things;
peaked smell, long weaving blow; the said
air
a being and opulent in he that with these,
lived.
Know what house that mansion of sky.
That mansion that behind the sun, a sharper
more,
seems of shadows.
