Standing at my rough bedside everyday

is an executioner.  As the sun

shines, exilic airs harm the brain, a sad

eagle, my white eagle, that every night

is renewed in my soul, stretches its wings

toward the dawn in the sunlight’s path

and starts to fly.

(inserted blank white space)

Between bleeding and broken feet, without

clear path to the regal sun, the eagle

goes seeking one grain of it to drag back.

Oh night, sun of the saddened, and the breast

whose force revives my heart, endure, discharge

the sun, take the form of a free and whole

woman for me to anoint your feet

with my crazy kisses, I will circle

your entire forehead and warm your hands.

Free me, my eternal night, from the killer

or bid him at the first light of the dawn

to bring a clean and redemptive sword

You ask what should it be made of?  Starlight!