In the malachite storm,

A disturbing relief of dreams.


Beyond the raised hands,

Men become more effective as ghosts.


Metaphors spring with convincing passion

From the decomposing mouth.


Shadows of shadows,

Whose dry voices God could not understand.


At the purple hour,

Crumbling angels hesitate

By the edge of golden larch groves.


Along the vacant square,

No one is coming.


Poem by poem, the heart ticks into obscurity.