your portrait --

when joy in space becomes a nobler thing

we enter, half-aware and half-amazed

flittering there on distant branch the winged

omens take flight beneath the haze

that Settles in the dusk -- a sempiternal glow

warming Us to Ourselves, as we succumb

to bright foreclosures -- an understudied Woe --

we follow the incessant beating of the drum

and understand little but face or form

heralded in sky's pure limit of ascent -- truth

as inverted Reason -- lies which keep us Warm

-- a wicked-Cornering -- here uncouth --

ignite for Us this molten ice, this wick;

burn the guide ropes -- flames will fit --

*