in the holding of that,
with which my hand
holds no thing
no more

of that within it
emptied out
and no one
i became

and oh!
if I were to no
longer look back
from thence on!

for,
it will take a turn
as it cometh
forth

so, i’d hold the little calf
or bleeting lamb
and spare it from the
edge and ax

but each tooth
will take it's due,
turn my pale limb black,
taketh of bone and flesh

twist and turn
my turgid soul
inside
and to the out

it will take of me bit by bit
bine my heart becometh
and as i hold and hope
and sing

the night
crushing
it cometh