As long as night is one country
on both sides of my window, I remain a face
dreaming a face
and trace the heart’s steep path: Night
and falling.
There’s no place
my hand, full of its own going away,
ever found along a body
falling beside me.
And the way to the crowning grapes lies sealed
to all but one who’s heard
what nights are for: Falling,
as water falls
to fill and fall, overwhelming
basin after basin,
as each must kneel
inside himself to find
the tiered slopes
only brimming masters.