On the chine of the first white inkling of the winter
The Ravenmaster wraps his limbs in combs of wind.

It is November; the tower closes down
For night. He is wont to dwell on

Bridles, stars, medieval presaging. I will be ringed
At ankle, am a corvid thing.

Ruin is formal.
Metal, tether, one good name.

Virgin wool still with the body's oils keeps the cold, an augury.
A man who lives in a circular stair keeps watch.

The lighthouse I let go of, as a girl.
Since in your hand you seek to tame

Me, ravening, am wont to salt my own —
My will be done.