The year
rises from empty May; fills with gold.
Reach out, asking
     where are these enormous bees from, in the heather
     strumming forgotten things; this late-winter eternity of dove-blue rooms. Stars pool on the broken floor.

Beyond this door the house is falling:
The white pulse of the
ghost’s hand draws him. (though not the dead:
        the future echo of a life difficult as flowers has its own power. She takes his hand:
I will stay the harvest, but will leave you nothing

& even this is unclear. The face of the wave, rising, becomes a wall and then the sky. Then here the wave is falling.
The terrible absence —
the dark under the wing,
water, these
lonely breakfasts in sunlit rooms — gets through: the wire in the rose, if less
perhaps than error, lies yet more deep and careless than loss and disrepair.