an almost white hymnal

there is loneliness,
among these sheets,
than it cares to tell,
its telling has been answered,
in deep breaths and silence
there is depth,
in its emptiness,
the sunlight sheds,
achingly, its bones,
almost perfect,
white and tortuous,
let the shadow be,
the bed needs some peace,
some oblivion, waking,
in her eyes, she is far out,
a forgotten tune, in the wild,
gathering flowers for you,
there are tears in the rain,
love, made of river-glass,
too cold to swim in