WEBVTT

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Two prisoners whose cells adjoin
communicate with each other

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by knocking on the wall.

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The wall is the thing
which separates them,

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but it is also their
means of communication.

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Every separation is a link.

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A key turning in the fields,
turns a key wild in the wild

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rose--

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a child in the rose.

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Every thought is morning
read through the prison bars

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all noon.

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A grave gathers in
the opening dew.

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These gallows, their rosen hue.

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This lock doubles a child
born in debt in prison,

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as I myself was born.

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Every heaven is also.

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Through the window's bars--

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the field.

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And the field
sparrow is a prison

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in flight, two white
bars on each wing.

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My mind is a little
key in a child's hand

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turning the rose
to tune the rose.

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West a single petal at day's
end is the whole sky this dying.

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Bloom the bard,
clouds bruised white.

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When the moon rises,
the moon is not light,

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but seems made of light.

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The moon is a prison
floating in the night.

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The key is bloody in
shadow, but also bright.

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An orbit turning, pointing
vaguely on the field it shines.

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