It Was Enough

Yawning of dawn.
I scribble a note for night
to come again.

And I try to write a triolet
in memory of moon;
who forgot to say goodbye.

A pigeon flutters in my chest
for a beautiful bride,
who was fond of pecans.

I have not much to show
except my trembling hands
which could not light the -

lamp in dark for once, to
read the face of eternity.