Her Hands (day 835)

Her hands will die
Maker’s shoulder
Sifting clean sheets
Un-kept wicker

Lie not to her
Monotonous
Cold cold flower
Hold not wishes

Wind blows strong here
Lives hold on with
Tall tall top hats
Blurry shading

All I’ve covered
Dying grasses
Loudly told me
Surrender youth

Make me love her
Dying oak tree
Make me cry here
Falling dead leaves

Take me home my
Lonesome lover
Take me past all
Reverie then

And if this aye
Shall swerve this goat
To set me free
Shall make an end

Then ere warned
Five thousand shorn
A gooses neck
Death brings this end

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