Within a thousand shining/smiling days, your rays find way to lay upon air, upon cloud-less sky of eyes in ‘guise, fallen-razed along ‘rizon’s edge, stretched-stretching ‘yond the view of you.
i have no goals,
not yet fashioned into bridges.
Though made of holly bush a maze may be
— with tower’d slopes on leaves haze’d green,
and darken’d nests of space laid seen
‘tween the branches hunched in lean —
one may find this twisting root unsheathed
to be but gentle Atlas of ‘Rachnid’s silken’sea