Yellow touches me to pieces
this night, unkindly
with a stranger's queasiness.
I feel distantly ill
held like a canary a bit too tight
or a gold watch bursting in a
plain of heath.
As you are friendless now
and buried in spirits
and the earth's smell of turning
like the rain,
not even empathy can reach you.
My feelers search instead
beneath the moors
touching at some inscrutable
thing, wrenched between the stones
and mute loam, touching back at me
like sound, like the thin mews
of a violin.
If I could only speak to it the red halls
of my throat might cleave like lilies.
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