Jack Ellyat, lying in a warm nest of hay, Stared at the sweet-smelling darkness with troubled eyes. He was going tomorrow. He couldn’t skulk any more. —Oh, reasonless thirst in the night, what can slake your thirst, Reasonless heart, why will you not let me rest? I have seen a woman wrapped in the grace of leaves, I have kissed her mouth with my mouth, but I must go⁠— He was going back to find a piece of himself That he had lost in a tent, in a red loud noise, Under a sack of tobacco. Until he found it He could never be whole again —but the hunger creeps Like a vine about me, crushing my narrow wisdom, Crushing my thoughts⁠— He couldn’t stay with Melora. He couldn’t take her back home. If he were Bailey He would know what to do. He would follow the weaver’s tune. He would keep Melora a night from the foggy dew And then go off with the sunrise to tell the tale Sometime for a campfire yarn. But he wasn’t Bailey. He saw himself dead without ever having Melora