You may not pass with knife turned against self.
This may be my one chance to save you.

The afternoons thrown into a dry well
invisible now, have built a tower
underground like a missile in its bay.

A power you don't remember 
remembers you; turns your knife 
into a key; turns the key within the lock.

The evenings shot into the dark, their aim
truly betrayed with this meeting of eyes,
still lay their weight on my hapless Atlas.

Turns the handle of the door; turns aside
from misreading by leaving you alone
can enter and only for a time.

All mornings stab the paper just the same
for the day to draw the circle it must
just as if all our epics never were.

And just there is my attempt to save you.
On the blade of this plough miles of land gleam.