When the clock struck three
It was all but me sitting there and free
I had a moment of choice,
and he
He slept all night, unfazed and unmoved
Like the old banyan tree

It was Friday dawn when I mowed the lawn

And there it laid
Like the steel in my heart and dried petals in my braid
Like the coldness of a December sun
Unwilling to come out of the clouds' warmth
And I turned deaf
To whatever the reasons had said.

I picked up the trinket
A work of art, however, lacking in taste
A work of art nevertheless
Bright and shiny like the sequin embellishments
Of a Friday night dress;
Takes water to shimmer under the dying
sunlight of a day that started fresh.

The trinket man who brought the Pandora's box,
Had known it since the autumn equinox;
That the home however calm and peaceful
And mundane may it seem
Knows humans for human
And nightmares from a dream.

Soft yellows from the meadow outside the window
Or raging reds of the blood
Flowing through the creaks in the shadow;
Like the hustling gust of wind, that blows
Through March in a northeastern plain otherwise chilly;
Or pinching silence of a midnight walk
Through the melancholic abandonment of Bly.

​

A cannibalistic appeal to a noble
A catastrophic misrule to wobble

So there I laid,
Thinking of all the warm kisses
From the first day together at college
To the last night on the same bed,
Or any bed for all that is said;
O steel o' heart
How you move to my hands the way I dread,
He was the one true love for whom I thought
My heart stood laid,
And yet, they wander around wastelands and
Dark alleys of the unheard and unsaid.