There is a darkness to the start of day
The hand eludes,

Before sun's head has beaten
Through the wall of world.

There god crawls,
there a funeral wit redraws a landscape.

Has it begun?
Has the ending and the blot of things begun?

Must every day then be created
From pure muteness?

Once anything sufficed
To fill these teacup abysses,

An aimless thread,
A tree that was the palace of a king;

Now only you suffice,
The sight of you, the shape of things

That bend to kiss you in the street;
Whose fatal love

Before dawn draws its penitence from earth
In an endless sermon, always

the same, soft tyranny of words
Winging over the trembling sky.