The falconer

 

For a journey from low to low over high

a river only needs renewable energy:

sun and gravity as the skater

on a perpetual ramp. Only death

 

stops the circular talk into the hole

in the black wall where I saw the misses

at the wishing well and their kissable

soft arms. So young in my mind

 

it makes the years in the past short

remedies to wait for the long next.

These sheets cleaner than mine

make me long for another word

 

unhampered by machine defection,

the same as yesterday, but as good as

a hawk on the gauntlet of a man;

a timeless promise before the altar