Each knife-stick blends the blade—

Each knife-stick
          Blends the blade—
                    And I bleed,
Your needs out-wield mine,
      So I’m choked the weed,
  Roots tenaciously
      Staid to stone.
  Yet laid to wind-worthy reed,
                    All bone
  And whine of whim
              O’er the cone—
      Cherub-shielding the purest
  Of you and me.
      I teeter-in-the-sky to disagree:
Quaint-chime is fine
        For a sublime time,
                    Though my heart endureth
          The cruelest,
Cagiest cacophony.

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