Towering corpses clothe you
melancholy ships
say farewell to the gallery
you’re fancy half-shut flower
promontory of lips
ripples on gray leaves
lilies in autumn silence
deep-asleep, I know it’ll snow
below our grass, so pale
the mirror holy, golden wavering
flame, deep sunset fields
where broken music appears
with tropical ancient readings
suffer some or down you stop
in curly dreamful 1883

Copyright © 2010 by A.J. Kaufmann. All rights reserved.