An evening primrose glides
on my rough hands.
I pluck a laugh from the lips
of a parched face.
It knows the meaning of death,
kissing the pink eyes.
Of the lost fidelity and the innocence of the dying sun
How to tell myself, you are not coming.
Gradually the house will go back to its still air.
The white ants will draw a pattern on the stale books.
The traffic of private tears will begin to move.
The truth is a happening with all the little gods.
I demand nothing, only pink rose buds
of early winter.
There is no one to know
that weeping grass
keeps me touching, holding my toes.
