I mourn
before the zephyr bends back my held orchid buried upon his grave
gossamer eyes find these cobwebs, sticking to the
snow:
here you are, eternal sleep, where you are dead name, unknown
and no words have parted my lips since then
when,
I was your piano and lover, said I to the cold Opera film:
no love shall have me, si je n'ai pas l'amour
and of course my lips were rinsed in the copper ambrosia
your eyes, thin membranes
which have closed now, and shall remain and
keep me intoxicated upon the silence, the Death that has stopped,
oh, set me into your canvas, and of what we are made
of clay, and the spirit that speaks,
hums into your bones, where every God I have called down,
has offered me a way back to the sun.






So I won't re-comment on that side of things!
















40 old applause
