Mar 13, 2010


those old friends (or just that one)
you have abandoned to a drought
of years-- last conversation
about literary criticism and tolstoy
left interrupted-- and you greet
reanswering how much land a man needs--

what has happened, happens still--
a gathering of counterpoint and tension,
this now, w/o space--

which is bathetic (i confess,
i confess, i do) but-- this moment
slivers its rail of rain
continuously, permanantly falling,
hitting-- the world so much
impressionable wave--

and i, i am facades of mirror
upon vestige of puddle and gutter--
a sewer of river and sea
wrought of silvers grave--

o, love--
i have no right
but by your grace
you give me