out of sleep， the buckling of the knees to cold，

    the melting of the parts to want，

    the design of the moon to cast

    unfriendly light， the dazed shadow

    of the self as it follows the self，

    the toll takers sorrow

    that we couldnt have been more intimate.

    Which leads me back to the land，

    the old wolves which used to roam on it，

    the one light left on the small far hill

    where someone must be living still.

    After life there must be life.