the music, yearning
like a god in pain,
his eyes staring
out rimed and
bright with tears,
clutching his
self hunched over,
rocking a little,
feeling the
emotion's ether
flowing over us
like the deep
voice of a cello
standing alone
in the medieval
forest, feeling
the dark sky
weighing down
and searching,
forever searching
the Riviera scape,
the view of the
sunrise estuaries
from thousands
feet up, feeling
the great great
curve of the earth
like the pain
that comes
when he touches
you


you are as
late as
the shadows...

il christantemi


(not
worth
the dust
on the
feet of
those
who hanged)


the sunlight on dusty leaves
wake up