Have foresworn
the world,
in love with
being
misunderstood.

Trouble to that place
within myself,
autumnal mood

My wintry depth,
a ferry to
the snowdrifts
of memory:

the stalagmites
& stalagtites
of a heart
deep
within
a cave

of a glacier
never thawing.

No matter
the violence
of forlorn
elements
nor
my forward
escape
spurring
an ambition
of promise.

Thwarted begonia
melancholia ritual,
a whim
awaiting
in a field at dusk.
His return,
the turn
of the year,

Poet
in a vale
of old longings,
dream
pangs
at the vantage
point
of small tasks:

alone,
going for
water,
revelations-
trial by
the bed
of nails.

Questioning
if
the soul exists,
if
fellowship is
one
of the many
spoils
of the
dead.

It’s about Art—
isn’t it?

(He
is not here
to answer.)

Close all
the windows.
Make an end
to this
speaking.