To the one who offers himself
To the fog with faithless devotion:
The hillside rejects you—the air
Does not want you. Linger alone
If you must, but riptides deny you.
The nighttime is rotten enough.
With the crusts of light from the shards
That are scattered: city in evening
Reflecting the halo of light
Off the moisture-crown in the sky...
And I hover! Somehow the west wind
Promotes me, uplifting me next
To the towers. Signal projects
Me, connecting pebbles—the dwellings—
In mist, and I rust to protect
This lost empire: sand and wave swelling.
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