Spinning in the dry darkness,
in the scent of ages and stone cut new
touched by linen and bitterness,
an olive pressed by thew
and bone white dress
with iron stain and pallid view
and silence, like the moment when
the heart again takes rest before
love does restore its regimen.
The stillness spinning up to soar
and test the heaven
with salty streaks and I adore,
and down, beneath the basest fear
of noble children lost at night
with lazulite and flowing tear
the gates before the spinning slight
and tossed; the bier
is touched now by the Nazirite.
The darkness now his eyes eschew,
the spinnings cease, feet on the floor,
shroud falls like falls to day the night.
And now he stands and — God, it’s true! –
The stone is rolled back from the door.
He moves, steps into him the light.
