A coda lies in this actual frame
of thin, noon light.

Raw and rigid wound.
Here is its noun.

It takes some time to recall-
a chalkiness in the stone avowal

and the formality of prolonged excess
in which the explicit becomes partial-

Then an invitation to symmetry,
to pastures of molecules and clusters

of bright shadow between cold,
sweet weeds.

II.

A tender taxonomy
to still an otherwise
long reprise of intentions,
wrung and battered
from the flesh.
Harsh bone, wet liver,
membranes sultry
between the organs.
What absolute
in your marred blood,
ravaged friend,
will exhaust the want
of love? The day
turns overcast a gutted
voice, cast off.

III.

Separately inhabiting remorse.
We exact, and we wander.
As if rhythmically in connotative
pattern and elision.
This recollection of forms
adhering to duration
and splendor.

An evening of mimicry-
imagined end extending
a residual hesitation
of the source-periplum.

We were seen then.