Leave me with abba
after devastation. There was
blood before the dawn.
The feathers were floating.

And why should one weep
when the lake was dry
and there was a corona
discharge from the man's face.

I remember not, all the
ugliness of life, when I was
growing roses in my books, like
a moon striking my pen.

The road was there, the tree
was there, but your footprints
were not to be seen. Where have
you gone my words, I was waiting?