Among the vaulted heavens or the halls
and doors of tears that we have adored
in the sorrowful library, in the full
vowels of the rich carpet on the floor,
among the whirling night housing a tall
star of freshness, in the fateful store
of angels beyond the flight of seagulls:
for me there is no vessel I can pour
myself into that may receive the swells
of feeling more completely, with more
knowledge of the way that the tides roll,
or the sorrowful night comes to the door.
But the senseless burning stars that fall
will bring my shipwrecked prayers ashore.
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