Stars are a wind of dead light –
A reflected pond of iris
Purple blooms of stained glass on the dream’s closed eye.
I come to you in your sparse room,
Bringing a white voice of ocean,
And glossolalia of extinguished candles.
Blankets of darkness wrapped the expanding night,
And voices of the mourning dove seeded all this grey light.
In our remaining time,
There is still beauty,
As I held your bowed head in decaying arms.