O THOU

O thou, in a restless bracken, unbeseeching. It can be another hand. It can attain. I was looking behind each penumbra, a restless book. I was bent spine and pantheon of my own wet name. Thou in a slick upholding, thou afloat. Beatitude and stern Beatrice, awake, interred. It was nightless flying and a plenitude, incising. It was lung-sacs burst and avid, a voidless poise. Thou in a placeless premise, this celeste, and it seems to be motion, not ascension—seems it is a body unimploring, a human grain.