the day that I will pull you out of me,

unfolding petal after petal—then,

like morning breaking from this little stem,

these words, their work, at last will be complete—

but time has sown my days on wide’ning plains—

dispersed the constellations from my heart

in bold fistfuls of stars, flung through the dark

to shine their lights alone, in distant pains—

the kinds that can’t be understood—or helped—

but can sometimes, on cloudless nights, be felt