Beauty sees what beauty seeks
and skies and skies
rise
You arrive at your final wandering
of many, of many and
spy
what once stood for failure.
Trojan Sycamores whisper in the fields
you tumbled upon as a child
as a child playing conkers
on the warm-wet buttercups.

Beauty feels what beauty frees, 
the splendid energy of fresh death
like a sweet flower in a
nook of soft bone 
winking up
at the sun
a trance renewed in the great shawl
of finality. You think

There is no end
There is no end
And...it's...good...