Birds must dip their plumes in space:
We are the loveliest in the dark,
When the moon sews itself up between the trees.
Morning is a kind of flood that gurgles
Out of us. It is a hymn we sing to Eros,
A curve we trace in light.
And winter has deprived us of memory. Our
Natural life ripped from us. Now we are
Sustained with stranger, more beautiful things.