A SINGLE ORANGE WAS THE ONLY LIGHT
where escalations of proximity—as owls
subtracted from their middle nights with gall
provided, entitled spite for constancy, invited
toward revival into narrow wake and legion
of meridian, where no stillness stands before
them as before—were purpose enough; and it was
calm, ringed, light; a pulplamp for our bathing.
Nearness in a room with the shutters stayed.
We starved the floorboards twined in corners,
tracing creases of our guise, until a frost
dimmed the augured vault, the haven we
found in closer flesh. Placid branches split
the peel. We heard the we which is was sought
until we were. Our hair was the last to corrupt.