Something begging in the year came you dearly
upon yourself in that wind to hear all
the words of a life cleansed in its moment whole.
To carry without scrip the very sort
of us, in transactions we made more than to
remember ourselves by, and then by only
that, undimmed to end beyond corners for
spare minted seconds of love untouched like a
diamond you could, where I draw you clearly taken
with the last blurred glimpse, more than arrive in me.