I have your final smile by rote; free of all former hooks and clasps, I turn the darkness like a coat. I turn the darkness like a coat and smell the wind sift through quicklime. Imminence weights an empty egg, don’t ask for rue and sage and thyme. Don’t ask for rue and sage and thyme, one blackbird in a bush makes spring and when light puckers to a point the mute mouth lets the body sing. The mute mouth lets the body sing a cherry sound disbanding dawn for heart’s beyond this final flame — who laced the wind with our design? Who laced the wind with our design? Though last goodbyes have failed the test and worst makes shift to set off worse, blind worms are flight as yet undressed. Blind worms are flight as yet undressed: below the keyhole of the sky the lichens green their wings with noon. They say the Sphinx has shut one eye.