Treatise on the Solivagant
February curls
its silvery wind
into the night (an elusive accompanist
in conscious hours) refracting
sunlight as if there were another place
unlayered with tawny sorrow where You rest love in my lap -
yet Longing, no longer bright like the Sunflower Door in Prague
cast pewter silhouettes displacing us
into winter’s undercarriage as if there were another place
other than Poetry
where Love could have thrived
