staid,
so sober
tossing pages
closed on clover
sank for a sennight
cream
and green
and white
and red
like spring cloudburst on her head
from stride
to sulk
to sleep
to cry
clutch, cradle and cast the die
******,
sleeping, sneaking sot
windswept, waifish
closed on clover kept to rot
fold for a fortnight
fix a thousand paper cranes
taking pains until it wanes
cream,
and green
and pallor,
plum
forswears all her working numbs
from sink
to sink
to cough
and cry
contemplates with vacant eyes
the stars above, where they reside
and when they dawn, their bright visage
where could the glimmer be
"but why are orion and the other stars rushing to leave the sky, and why does night contract its course?
why does bright day, presaged by the morning star,
lift its radiance more swiftly from the ocean waves?
am I wrong, or did weapons clash? I’m not – they clashed.
mars comes, giving the sign for war."
