NIGHTBEAM ‘The hair of my evening beloved burned most brightly: to her I sent the coffin made of the lightest wood. It is swayed by waves like the bed of our dreams in Rome; it wears a white wig like I and speaks hoarsely: it talks like I do when I grant entry to hearts. It knows a French song about love, I sang it in autumn, when I tarried on journeys in Lateland and wrote letters to morning. A gorgeous skiff is that coffin, carved from the timber of emotions. I too sailed it downbloodstream, when I was younger than your eye. Now you are as young as a dead bird in March snow, now it comes to you and sings its French song, You are light: you sleep my spring to its end. Tam lighter: I sing before strangers.