I. There is a fall in to dark, felt in the bone, a loss of heat, a slow tilting away and cyclical spin into space, a shy, unnoticed turning of blue and green to grey. They say that the light goes out of it as if the light leaves of its own accord, a wan A-chord in the wood. There is a word in the dark where no moon is heard... II. There I read of the spoon-fed dead, how their zen amounted to zed, surmounted by spires built to go higher until their fires flew in the sky and spied and tried twisting their wrists in the bonds they had become so fond of, that they loved even though reviled and shoved away and held sway over the fray and stayed none the less where their sun-born lies could not see through the tresses but blessed the butcher and the barber none the more let them near with their knives and their shears while tears came and the rending of garments began the beating of chests and the mustering bluster and pounding of hearts into dust III. ...and you looked at me with your moon-bone eyes and I saw to the hearts of the stars felt solar wind in the spars and lines of age on my primal face knew the breeze with the skein of seven seas knees climbing millennia to the crow’s nest and finally resting raced to the crest of the day and rubbed galaxies from the corners of my eyes. Two haiku sonnets and a...pseudo-sonnet?