And it's vernal, she's washed winter from her sallow skin, the skin of the near dead, and gotten done with the African violets
and uttering such words certainly meant to be meant as come from the mouth though cadged from a bard . . . thee best, O most best, believe it . . .
noted that I've liked love, the punctuations of it, the wink and wave at you, shadows bristling with a holy ghost
that such religiosity has its habits, its myth of desolation and rise, of utter promise based so truly on the rhythm of that waltz on the hooves.