Many tiers make this world pillowed on stone

    many collect in their fear to strive.

    Yours the face aglow in the cold，

    precarious thriver in the song-stung dark.

    With glance and lip you collected me.

    Where are you？ Alien hip I catch you out，

    refuse cheshire blazon， unpronounced tremolo.

    Now to step into the prints you left.

    Winglessly now to embrace your air

    on tiptoe， phonetic and misprized answer—

    know you me？ Tease this mystery？ Kiss，

    cats， for your dear dog am I， better angled

    to see you by night with eyes straight upward

    and by your leave to praise and praise.