I walked through the garden at the hour

when dusk becomes a bruise upon the sky,

and every shadow held a word

I had forgotten how to speak.

The willow bent its long fingers

through the silver water,

pulling down the moon

into a thousand trembling pieces.

I stood where the river forgets

it is water, and becomes

only the shape of absence,

only the sound of something

leaving.

And the night, so patient,

so terribly gentle,

wrapped its dark velvet arms

around me, and whispered: