I've lost the me that was so deep for you.
Say, "Stay with with me. I 'll bear the loneliness!"
He says "No! She doesn't deserve this dress
of meaning I put on the morning dew."
I say, "She left me cold. Now you won't stay.
Oh. This is how it is through all deep time:
these characters desert me for a rhyme -
the ego's leafless; it's a bitter play."
And yet one leaf remains, bold as a prop.
"No! I'm not waiting for a single thing,
no landed fish to retrieve long-lost ring -
just make the foolish nightmare start and stop."
"Have the universe, good women too:
but that you deeply grieve is lost to you."
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
