Tonight it will rain on the green dunes of limestone.
Wine preserved until now in a dead man’s mouth
will awaken the realm of footbridges, displaced in a bell.
A human tongue will clang courage inside a helmet.
And so trees will come at a quickened pace,
to wait for a voiced leaf, brought in an urn,
herald of sleep’s coast sent off to a tide of flags.
Let it soak in your eyes, so I think we’re dying together.
Your hair streaming from mirrors will blanket the sky
in which, with a frigid hand, I’ll flame an autumn.
From waters drunk by the blind, my stunted laurel
will climb a belated ladder to bite from your brow.