Jasmin and black olive
In her corridor
To whisk away
The smell of death

Of her landlady
Of great corpulence
A weak heart
And diabetes
But the sweetest smile
And contagious laughter

She gives thanks
When lighting her candle
De jasmin et olive noire.

I know not where I shall find love
By the foots of the mountain or on the plains of clove
Where the oak trees shed their green blades on the brown grass
Perchance by the deserted road where lays the heap of trash

I know not when I shall find love
During spring when April showers bring may flowers
When wintry chilling cold bites the white earth
When the woods glow of amber in the hearth

I know not how I will find love
Through divine appointment or by strove
Whether from a recent friend or a foe of past days
May be from stranger met by labyrithine ways

I know not why I will find love
Whether possessed passions will cause me to move
To seek the friendship of some lovely lass
May be just another ritual of life to pass

Whether in known or unknown places
Whether in familiar or strange faces
Whether time is constant or flies like a dove
I one day shall find love

The work began with cedar, ash, and pine.
In cold months, the architecture rose
on Utah timber, the truest I could find.
Eventually, come spring, the windows shone.

The house stands abandoned now. In time,
the clapboard, screens, and porch decomposed
to a bleak mark—a wreck on the tree line.
So ruination brings the builder home.

The red metal box is packed with tools:
galvanized nails for the bedroom I dreamed in,
a trowel for the plaster my fists passed through,
a needle and thread for the curtains’ revision.

Open the unlocked door. At once a throng
of starlings scatters, bursts from the roof in song.