There is a cataract of blood over the dawn;
I know by watching
from the river’s fringes of wild grass
as the bridge cables whine, and the bare
nerves of trees wake to hunger, and the wind
invests us with grand estates of loss; there is
blood unrolling like a stair behind that muslin
battered with cloudblow, sure as there’s a heart
behind this breast. The grass falls slant
as if its tassels brushed a further limit,
and were dispossessed of common thoughts, of ground.