Standard (EADGBE)

the

hollow light

is still on the

fields

where the winter has

warmed

and the snows have

drained waway

and

the hunter’s cry

is still on the

air

as the bullet flies

home

but the heart that’s

pierced with it

still is

racing

still is

racing,

alone.

the silver shoals

of the light in the deep

brush the glitterin skein

where the great, dark body writhes

and the trembling jaw

the unfathoming sounds

of leviathan, bound

as his heart, though weakening

still is racing

still is racing, alone

you are racing

you are racing,

alone.