Yet my thoughts still dance around your eclipse,
Like excited wave-wafts in a freshly-made dawn
On the brink of an animus’ colloidal color-sound
And the trifling trinkets of sun-swatches past morn.
The skies did break, and my fevered feet
Are circling, circling ever, those rings of gold.
When I was but sixteen, not a soul had the kind heart
To explain to me these feelings. I was never told
Of ambitious emotions on waxen wings,
Chasing sun and wind, in the fieriest fold;
Of the grasslands greying, soil to sky,
And eclipses made out of loves left cold.