Birthday - January 1897

The black wrathful rock that the north wind rolls
It will not stop nor under pious hands
Touching its resemblance to human ills
As to bless some deadly mold.

Here almost always if the pigeon coos
This intangible mourning oppresses many
Clouds fold the star of the following days
Whose flicker will silverplate the crowd.

Who seeks, wandering the lonesome leap
Sometimes outside our vagabond --
Verlaine? He is hidden among the weeds, Verlaine

No surprise that he naively agrees
The lip without drinking or drying up its breath
A slandered creek, not so deep, death.

03/12/2008