And he rides, he rides like silver
In the arches of the night,
With the smell of sea around
Him and the burning light
Around him. I think I see him
Coming, when I shut my eyes
I hear him, laughing through the
Bed sheets, crawling up my thighs,
Murmuring beside me
Whistling my name,
The narrow eye hangs open
My breastbone cracks again.
He rides, he rides like morning
In the arches of my soul,
The shape, the priest, the answer,
Governing the cold.