And I wait for night-darkness, somewhere among oaks
by a grave sunk in the earth, one plodding butterfly
framing the flower garden. This silence is welling,
but comfort not even a crypt-silence can give
– live creeping ivy rustles over every brick
– and on the slanted wall, wind whistles through cracks:
an iron angel with lung trouble, puking blood.
Here’s where we’ve come to, suave speech fallen cold.
You’d call, but work awaits you elsewhere
and your eyes don’t see your body’s blotches
and no more cleave to the red line
of your once so soft and luscious lips,
like the earth’s selfish kiss later answered
mutely, like large dreams witnessing the moon.