child of mid-morning and netherhour
I come to your three am in veiled zinc shimmer
in watered fall of the thousandth drop
to lay soul claim with these hands
on the only hour
the one belonging to no world
having no part in the soiled solidity of humanity
untethered and unchainedly wisping at my hair
gliding strands across the eye and I am borne
essence of spirit like diamond mist, a thousand
colours of none. In this hour
there is no need, thanks be offered
for definitives, fleshliness, for extremities
only the balance of a moment
extending itself along my gossamer veins
like the slow unfolding of limbs and wings
the careful gather before tranquil flight
all in the hour, I am belonging to no world
blissfully drinking light of darkest height.