A Good Lark’s Wings

Curious care for a bird’s song afar
Like the distant death of a longing star
If an echo falls it then it has to must-be
What I can’t touch but can touch me
But I can lift my mind to envisage these
And so now I am all these imageries
Fixation requires one’s self absolute
To have reputed, then, has its repute
I am my own poem, my ending I write
A saga for satyrs, or some tragic delight
So whips of worries and too-dark things
Carry away now on a good lark’s wings