Here, in the shuddering margins of voice:

the ripening vow of shadow's edge,

like any key and willing memory

returning blind as if born of this world.

And letting toss of this, aside
from desire,
seated in her coaxing dance,

it seems with more, once more,
the newest
is never
a better me,
while future case affirms with past
in continual lapse of prescience

and in every loss
some irony.