My love whose hair is hay spun into gold

Whose thoughts are the straw that stirs the drink

Whose waist is a cloudy Sunday afternoon

passing thru the eye of a needle

I am sad that it never got started.

put all your tears back into the pockets of your brain, put back

the shadows and fevers, put away the stubborn impossible

flowers, the trembling

the not yet beaten.

night is an old laundress, pot-bellied and just a little too sad.