Oswald

Oswald, there's a dead end around the corner.
But it's soft, as the bird that whispered "Brigida's murder", as the time ran to hide.

I don't see it bright,
and how much time have we wasted?

"This would work whenever the moon let a white shade underneath your shoes"

Let the left light work itself a white shade that once left our houses, through the chimneys and way up.

To ran,
to seize the word we both shared.