Over the shoulder
you fling the pang away
and move on with-
pockets empty.

Sitting aside a-
mausoleum- listening to
the songbirds.

Why do you build a huge
crypt for your love? In summer
noon I will keep on thinking.

From thumb to thumb
I will ask of the ambience-
while building this place.

In your land now grows hate
and anger. The finish is gone,
and finesse suffers.

The **** faces still haunt me.