know your trembling soul*
       gaze at the grave
           you now prepare
              but leap and see the hollow game
                 you now call what you need
            under angers
       bleeding wounds
   dare feel your hearts desire
      speak what you fear will just destroy        
          claim what you know to be lost
           be who you think you are not
                       *for creation is now
                           it can not be done
                       unless you make it so

But I cannot make you love me.
I want you to stay,
But I cannot make you hold me.
Our friends have all left us,
And our flowers are merely weeds,
The ones that are left are dead and rotting.
They were never as beautiful as you wanted to believe.
But at least they once were true.

Even still,
I would never hope to live without you.

In the early evening, a now, as man is bending
over his writing table.
Slowly he lifts his head; a woman
appears, carrying roses.
Her face floats to the surface of the mirror,
marked with the green spokes of rose stems.

It is a form
of suffering: then always the transparent page
raised to the window until its veins emerge
as words finally filled with ink.

And I am meant to understand
what binds them together
or to the gray house held firmly in place by dusk

because I must enter their lives:
it is spring, the pear tree
filming with weak, white blossoms.