Crying on his doorstep,
Pressed against the house,

I say: I’ll steal away at midnight
But please don’t leave me now.

He says: I’ve taken from your heart
But don’t forget you’ve stolen mine.

Sometimes nothing can be figured
And two people have to say goodbye.

The graying trees of coming Winter
tangle and re-tie.

As a clustered bunch,
they strain to hide
the softened pink and blue
of the setting sky.

Lines across a page, they're like:
the bristling wooden branches,
which the wind, a subtle thing,
wraps around and touches.

But, like me, stay warm inside
and at their very center -

So therefore, a chilling wind
can try but never enter.

Shivering like anyone who's ever been in love,
I leapt out of the rain
and dove into his arms.

I slept there for a little while,
kept my head steady,

And for the first time,
for the only time,

was no longer lonely.

The Old Man is dying.

I have read many words on many white pages

And so, from this, can say:

I have read many words on many white pages

And yet have never felt
The dawning break of day.

The black and white rabbit
With the red and slanted eyes
On the green and gray tapestry
Hung upon the scuffed and somber wall

Looks like a pet for the devil.