LXIII

Day breaks raining. Combed through
morning drips fine hair.
Melancholy is lashed fast;
and on the misasphalted oxident of Hindu furniture
veering, destiny hardly settles.

Skies of the puna disheartened
by great love, platinum skies, torvous
with impossibility.

The flock ruminates and is underscored
by an Andean whinny.

I remember myself. But the staves
of the wind suffice, the rudders so still
they appear one,
and the cricket of tedium and jibbous unbreakable elbow.

The morning suffices with loose tresses
of precious, sierran tar,
when I go out and look for eleven o'clock
and it is only an untimely twelve.