And what remains

Of the days long spent

With the sun worn

On my skin?

Of the quiet we

Held in the grim white day

Where we ran

Poor and led as the lamb,

When ecstasy wore us

As the quilted star

On the silvering barns

And grasses,

Whereby in the torn cloth and

Crimson violet,

Vitiligo build of day,

we sought arrowheads

and Asteraceae