Of the every winding, I am parted
Of plot and way, upon sown hours' insistence of day,
halt of time as muted sails thicken to diapason.
Held codas cease to render shape;
the stuttered reticence of their failing curve choirs still
To place body
to revise hull.
Over fragiled density
this crescentic weight lifts let of the final lonesome
and the exiled hands paraphrase loss.
© Christopher Brandon Lancaster
