Night, mad stars, upward into the heart of things, bitter and new as fire.
A small bowl of peacefulness. Heaven, that uncrowded place, peopled by illusion.
Unicorns, fermamented stars beyond the moon to the ultimate roof of things.
A gentle figure without legs, round, a colored silken thread.
Shadows of hawks' flight, two masculine destinies, fleeting mirrored, and gone.
