The triad of writer, lover and
the loved, she in the night of
raptors.

Gone the ability for thought,
the skin for touch, the heart
like unpainted bisque.

Her clammy hands, the drip
rivers ****** lacerations
born in the saunalike cataract
before, it seemed time
became the stranglehold
of Now.

Decades even later, years
uncover the silt of pain.

Together was not possible.

The rant began.

The cataract consumed her.
She unbreathed

goodbye.

Sphinx still
riddled.

She sat for me
clothed in sand

and waited

saecula saecularem

Amen,

Gentleman.

Last call.

Time gentleman.


Caroline Shank

In our love for the wind and all that passes,
Each smote of self, a wisp of loss and absence,
Like the snow pendulous slips over last grasses,
In the glow of the lamppost and unholding fences:
So too the thousand-grains of breath
Blow through our bodies’ incandescence,
And in the starlit-smoke from the dragon's mouth
On wings of filth swirl the bone-edge of death.

I love a miserable day

tomorrow should decay

Just like yesterday

See
The land
Of the poet's heart


Roses،
Roses،
Roses،
Roses

Everywhere

Your eyes
                  Are deep valleys

And

I am drowned in them

I have a fresh rose
                   in my hands
                                Still I smell only you

You            so
                and            close
                 me             ever
                are              still
                two             always
               parts           separate
                 of
               the
              railway
               track