Birds must dip their plumes in space:
We are the loveliest in the dark,
When the moon sews itself up between the trees.
Morning is a kind of flood that gurgles
Out of us. It is a hymn we sing to Eros,
A curve we trace in light.
And winter has deprived us of memory. Our
Natural life ripped from us. Now we are
Sustained with stranger, more beautiful things.
That’s incredibly lovely. So self-contained and still.