The interiors are made of glass,
And the visionary gleam has blackened to the husk.
This mood sustains itself on silence,
Lengthening out like a ripple through
A sea-bird’s throat.
You’ve sanded down the sunlight
Until it is like a grain of salt:
A memory that you scatter listlessly across your
Dreams; a fish-hook in the gut, stars
Falling drunk into the water.
