If your eyes were not the color of the moon, of a day full of clay, and work, and fire, if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air, if you were not an amber week ... Under the trees light has dropped from the top of the sky, light like a green latticework of branches, shining on every leaf, drifting down like clean white sand ... Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example the night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance ... Home