Nape craned on the awning behind the bedroom and adorned in all shapes of vines and tiny thought patterns, here as a bed, slept upon and loved between and thrown out into fire.

At once with the hinges rusted, now they prove melted in tears and woodsmoke, trees in death yelling 'I Cherish the Morning' as Cherubim In Four Face, one side of grass, one side of water, one side of stone, one side of mouths, opened to a kiss and gape to a yell for the spaces of rocks.

Goodbye, bright Twilight Hour, Her Children onward and out. Like the salmon to the sea or the sun to the Earth, or the bird's nest to the branch, its mother-bird a beak across. Her Children all evaporated and became the world again. They are the leaves now.