encased in regular filaments, filed
with name and habit into fall
the autumn tresses stir and turn
and lift about the eyes that burn
with some unfiltered, untranslated woe
that withers in brief of heat and sound
the days that pass without the door
falling into winter's whole
and dropping 'mong the graves of time
(colding wind on colder rain)
with passeth here without a step
or changing touch upon the ground;
but look, the turning of the hinge
opened silent and with care
a massive oaken chamber bared
to noise of light and press of eye
that gazeth into fire's heart
which writhes the ceiling with roses bloom
like blood upon the wounded breast
or perhaps water's soul, a silken pond
wrought with heat and golded with brine,
brine of oceans warm and bright
—fire, the hidden inner core
the bud of the flower's faery door
a guilded spree of bloom or gold
of ocean large or siltpond mould
among the rusted woods of old
among the darkening age of old

lost among forests of black ink clovers
cling like gold dust to the medieval turnings
of an ancient clef, a cello-flower
a mark among the cards at bower
queen of clubs with eyes ashine
glaring from her purfled shrine
and passing among the hands of time
down the line, down the line