If at all the language of death
Hangs on the loose end of
Languor, and is not to be spoken
Until the day of death itself,
Then the soporific tonic ought
To be swallowed....
If then the sun jeers at us in
Porous mockery, instead of
Losing grips with his rainy rays,
Ignore it and spell out the moon’s
Name.
Who knows, she might lower her
Pulse at whim, and demand no more
The sun’s caprices.