The clock strikes ten
when the wind winds
around the wooden
frame.

Around the top
a bow bows
as the leaves blow
into the southern midnight...

It will not budge,
lying in a pile
of refuse refusing to
be rattled.

In the distance,
carried through the air
several tears tear
the silence--

The memory of when
the dove dove into
the glass is
too much, too much to handle.