When, beyond the patience of night's long black grass,
they're locked into that shape
of a small white chastity—it's hardly this simple—

of their basic cells. It's hardly
winterpond's peaceful dose of sleep,
or Faulkner's rosary. It's what their hearts hold

that becomes truth,
as far as we know truth. It's the gular pouch of their hearts;
it's the trace of clacking
in their sky becomes the truth.