Forlorn wishes

a redeemer grips
himself from salvaging your tongue.
it must scathe and part

from your mouth. first light
recedes into itself like joy,
or grey hair on wool.

we arrange gloom till
it looks like a corduroy meant
for grief to travel,

to reach the province
of a heart that knows nothing but
doubt, mistrust and rain.

Younglan Talyoung