When in dreams,

         My love tumbles

                  the smooth and shambled

                           path,

To again assemble in the aftermath;

         Gulling wing to flight

In the mingled spangle

                  sprung of starnight light–

Mulling still the nulling nil

         of bangle

She, tangled tongue, sulling spills:

Her wisdom is folly,

         wheeling grist within her mill…

                  To yard in abandoned volley,

Gardened upon a peaceful hill,

         Sunned in the ceaseless certaincy

                  that ever she always will.

Winter 1988