I threw your name across the rooftops
but found it wouldn't come back.
Heard later through a debatable king
about the deer parading the crosswalk.
The sun sets about seeking a crown,
absently patting its growing shadows.
Now the sky beckons us darkly and
dances, whetting the nightlight's appetite.
A sound of sawteeth from the next yard
placeholds the argument of sleep.
Dear, dear the remainder of weather
is a promise for tomorrow, for unregarded
love burrowing into the rib's strongbox
like glass, in sound, in branches.