Woundstruck

Loving a night, she moves out.
One own night, hers only alone.
One minute detail still, as if long left,
As when she will cusp the frame,
If at all, that can ever ring inside the ridden names.

The myth in a chocolate-box floats along
Like her cloaked vains, water-tight.
No like, not ever like, never like the likeness
Of what the world knows like.
Her myth, hers own, a rapid myth of jungle-nights,
Mumbled strains of a loving waste,
As & when the keyhole bends
To taste the bricks of the cornfield-dust.

She is still.
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Only still.
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Now the time.
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The lacking time.
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Up in arms.
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Mine to shame.
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There she picks.
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Her closing clue.