Shantih Journal 3.1 - Page 54

3. Eleanor Gray among the leaves of evening, deciduous light, red orion, the hushed confession of twilight, crows in a woodland I come from the river 54 all is beckoning the dismantled world, it is a soft thing, which calls and listens, but never comes concoct of wistfulness and laminous cold, garnet-winged birds pitched towards some ever-woods, a tender place the long marriage of the otherworlds is over, there is no oaktime gate for departure, or the blue-depth water holding the secret of the Other’s name we are reduced to our own tongue, few colors, and all that is unremembered