[All Umber]

After many years, nothing
But strength, outward,
By the granite gates,
Down the dark path.
Vast apple strides
& the day is green
& the wind blows
Keats,
Who died of lust,
As so we all
Umber to
Sleep. Light is singing
In the poems, in my eyes, in the line,
‘… Apollinaire…'