At twilight slash the the twilight lamb
who woke that day to mother and to milk
and aimless drums of bees, and sun.
At night go splash the milk-fed blood as free
of viscous will as only sheep can be.
At newlight seek your missing lamb
and fail. Then sleep, wash feet, slurp milk
and honey syruped from the sugar sun
by joylight trapped in blooms as free
from bitter will as gardens ought to be.