The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve. br On their blotter of fog the trees br Seem a botanical drawing - br Memories growing, ring on ring, br A series of weddings. br br Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery, br Truer than women, br They seed so effortlessly! br Tasting the winds, that are footless, br Waist-deep in history - br br Full of wings, otherworldliness. br In this, they are Ledas. br O mother of leaves and sweetness br Who are these pietas? br The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.