In a single floral stroke.
What is there?
In these depths
Of these walls…
This gap in time,
Against which we have been projected -
Mystery of missing ships -
To follow this path of their brief blossoming
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed…
Is your ashen moon to grow?
I might have happily lived some other childhood
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless,
Roiling on and on and on,
This season not their own,
Come, swallows, its good-bye!