there were no hibiscus flowers,
no sign that the winter in paris
would ever end. so i am
fighting off the future,
return to the shadow of the
pantheon, where i am
so little, and having dallied with love,
a fragment of a paradise
if only truces could be struck.

the cloudy paragraphs of my heart
shall grow old and die,
like any cloud passing not into
rain or shadows, but scattered among
meadows and cascading hills.
the flatland falling, falling like a
forever now, fertile with bodies
beautifully fecund, now falling into a
sea of mornings. although, i know
the swell of the heart is no landscape

but a fatal pull of the moon
at our roots.