Go love without the help of any
          thing on earth…
                    William Blake    

Go with stones in your pocket,
the leaden call of deep water.
The wild stream
you’re running after, 
its plunging dream
and wrecking ball, sunk.
From ice, songs rise, liquid
tracking each muscular rose,
each bone unearthed,
wrung from the dead. Isn’t it nice
to think tomorrow is a new day
with no mistakes yet? The stains
on your skin, really wounds
rubbed clean, rolled in clover.
So much spit and polish,
the brash lantern
your saint keeps swinging,
her time, her crown
of skulls of singing, green infused light.