TURN OF AIR

New mother of pearl bends to new cold.
Wet ash in a womb of cloud,
a sweet risk plots its drift.
An inflated tower, will the upturned brow

unearth memory from madness?
Joined to the rider who more than all
flees memory, a handkerchief by the river,
or wandering squire who restores

the north wind to the mirror and oblivion to clouds.
Scales smoothing their sound
between the foliage and the outline of the slow

tumult rasping in the mist.
Exiled it affirms itself and more thirsty
or the air returns what it refines.