I  have now moved on from my remnants
To a night of variations, of subtle textures.
The variations are a poem in the making
With exquisite textures of a soft language
Like the inscrutable night, silky and smooth
And lined with sleeping trees in a dark sky.

The remnants are a poet in fever that likes
To see his own remnants on the ground
Ticking away in an aliveness  of art form
Some sort of a soul divine, a shred of light,
A body moving  from itself,  an aesthetic.