lapsing: the first echo

in no voice hast melancholy sounded
so sweet as in the vapors of wine thrilling
a good night's conversation with the moon
winding with a crawl through the nervous
sky.

in no crib does reality attend as the measure
it will someday treasure- as when walking
down a long aisle in a woods devoid of
breath and light easing in amongst the tailored
night.

in no ebb does flow not expect the pulse of another,
perhaps a brother, fallen to cobblestone without
a pulse or a shadow or a word of merriment or
a reckoning of tomorrow- we drown in embrace wasting
time.

in no altar does wine not hide altered from earth shaken
from wind worth a thousand great, lost moments 'til now
entombed in these nights, and infant cries and halting
clouds in between the winter and the warmth tasting
life.

and forever worse
the magnitude
of the sun
shaking
dawn

awake