To go beyond a valid wonder
of when an apache blue yielded,
the moonless night veiled all the stars;
in the chase for your thousandth face,
I did lose my own.
And now the ebb and flow
is an unwind of everything behind.
Come to me, the broken beau:
"Move over, move on, darling."
In summer's recess parted love's breath,
but the August gale sits on its coast.
It is just my way as the whisperer:
“The throb of stars is now as obscure
as the flowing blood of a ghost.”