Many tiers make this world pillowed on stone

    many collect in their fear to strive.

    Yours the face aglow¹ in the cold，

    precarious² thriver in the song-stung dark.

    With glance and lip you collected me.

    Where are you？ Alien hip³ I catch you out，

    refuse cheshire blazon⁴， unpronounced tremolo.

    Now to step into the prints you left.

    Winglessly now to embrace your air

    on tiptoe， phonetic⁵ and misprized answer—

    know you me？ Tease this mystery？ Kiss，

    cats， for your dear dog am I， better angled

    to see you by night with eyes straight upward

    and by your leave to praise and praise.