As my careworn eyes meet
A quiet few balconies
On an even quieter side street,
My talltales, they shorten;
To the skyline retreat.
As a led astray gush of wind
My neckline sets to greet,
A blank piece of paper and
Endless opportunities
Stir beneath my fingers’ heat.
To move them now is such
Slight a deed, indeed.
I won’t care for in morning;
This shepherd, that nymph,
And all wretched couplings,
That in moon’s pale stretch lies
A Rome till this ceiling
And a draped windowpane
Could still make a heart wring;
That a finger-painted sky
And the night’s velvety scent
As much cajoles my writing,
As probable a meteor rock is
To crash in a desire spring.
From yon crooked oak tree
To this glass of milk,
The paperballs belonging to me
Often land in that empty plot
To which one has no key;
Often hold some far-off tales
My pen fails to agree.
No passion flower, oak sprouts
No Echoes to repeat after
Such a winding soliloquy.
So in this turbid pool
I, myself, stoop to see.
A poem-maker subverts,
Again seeks bed’s embrace
To unlearn the secrets
I spent a lifespan to chase.
Prep school, one such place;
Approved only after leaving it,
Stabbing its entire rat race.
And in sodden roots of nature
Found my solace.
For only in past participles
My admiration has a face.
