Over the shoulder
you fling the pang away
and move on with―
pockets empty.
Sitting aside a―
mausoleum― listening to
the songbirds.
Why do you build a huge
crypt for your love? In summer
noon I will keep on thinking.
From thumb to thumb
I will ask of the ambience―
while building this place.
In your land now grows hate
and anger. The finish is gone,
and finesse suffers.
The nude faces still haunt me.