Merciless are you sun!
Yet the month is but May
A tireless rotation of the earth
On its invisible axis -
To call simply a praxis
Would be insensible -
For the practice of turning
Is not practice at all.
Weary do I walk under the trees
My hands dirty
The jug jug of broken fingernails
And T.S. Eliot reminding me of
The indignity of the city.
But here no wrappers lie,
Though the fog curls around the house
Like a cat and promptly falls asleep,
Suffocating, thick, and pale.
Concrete releases its heat
A reverse sun upon sunset
Warmth on a spring night
Along the bank of the river
Smooth, silver, in the half sunset
Glinting yellow on children's faces
And the bowers fragrant purple
Now baked.
We languish in the park.
Oh that my head were
A spring of water
And my eyes a fountain of tears!
Oh, that I had in the desert
A lodging place for travellers!
For this too, is a heap of ruins
A haunt of jackals.
