A feeble echo trampled in the brush with fame
I was busy exorcising is lost to time; no sooner
did I jump aslant it than a higher function
mapped and catalogued the waft of cinders
defying my stubborn description of a vacuum
rubbed into a wound too true to occupy
more than a deftly broken hour I'd rather
not needle or hurdle over, the stain of which
alarmed the hills we deified in the spring
when our dreams had inflamed the barracks.
Sadness grew a universe then, soft enough
to connive by but insufficiently scouted out to maneuver
within its outgrowing, the surly index of which
I'll recite to my love in spite of a scrape with her anthem.