Another untitled poem.
Consonant with sound.
All barges in low water.
So the night begins again.
Rain in a dream.
Each face of the dream is moon and sound, dream and water.
No envy for an end.
Still, the night makes up sound, drifting
of old loves, old houses, old pictures within these.
I could not so much follow you as simply love.
So into fear of sound I go.
I find a face upon a boat, low echo.