Hear the bell
Clear in chill
Mist surround
Accent mute
Hear the familiar click
Of a sore jaw
Hear the woolen draw
Of curtains
Closing in profession
Of days and acacia 
Feel green dusk play with fading light
See unidentified birds in last flight
Touch the cool solace of wood
A solidity of four walls
They treat the same
mutual diet of shame
beyond them wind purports to gather sound in tight bouquet
And crags of darkening stone
Lower their Norwegian profiles out
To churning sea the color of fingers stained mauve
By what we pick 
And bring to our mouth
In hunger