That coyote’s felt what I have bled
The snows of your heart’s mountain have mossed
The snows of your heart’s mountain have made us three uncertain again
We afflicted with temerity in being practical and profusely pleasant
We had hardly seen you sit at the town fountain until it was our time to say goodbye
The raven you made with your bare hands like a clock made of leaves a home made of rain
Flowers I often tell myself to remind the world of a beautiful night
That whatever holds stars is an invitation to dance the weight of a crash
That chaos in transmission of energy of devotion is what is that is what we’ve got
Yes transmission from a mind to another mind
The kind of transmission you made of my hands and my eyes
The snows of your heart’s mountain are both the love and absence of for which I
Commit to moss to contention without a notebook pen or clock.
