in this version, the trees survive
softly exiting the stations of breath.
somewhere, he opens his throat and claims the dark vowelled sky
and you reword god damning the sin of ink
when the movement of poetry within my body exhausts the moans
of inundated eyes impregnated by some other night.
tonight, tongue the quiet:
we pray the water's speeches against the oddity of light
flood the dialect between ossified bones of grief,
praise the good lord on idled knees
tonight, we levy the error of unbeing youth
and plague illiterate wars echoing tireless,