The silence of the night
on the staff
of the infinite.

I go out into the street naked
ripe with poems
lost.
The black, riddled
by cricket song,
has this will-o'-the-wisp
dead
from the sound.
That musical light
that is perceived by the spirit.

The skeletons of a thousand butterflies
sleep in my place.

There are young mad breezes
over the river.