A Pilgrim's Apocrypha

meet; hush; trod like slow silence. a glow: a new owl, seen by the shrine, is bathed in sun ! the old asp is in my urn; see, and she is blooming! such is the fang that harvests: sweet ... loops of loss and cycles of scorched weeping; a lid bows it & a cry bites a gulf into it. walk on light’s wires, o my tired wire walker. go, walk up to the top of our utter height. we call it by her name: awe-caller, and hinge to all that echoes loud; the soft, low roar.