And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair,
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

There are stumps, branches and roots
Does time also have seeds?
Deboule to fouetté to grand jeté
Dense concoctions of possibility
Seeking a moist jagged wound
There to open, unfold, become