At Annabichl gardens,

Stone angels knelt over small boxwoods

Without forgiveness.


At your final hour,

I sat on a curb in Waco Texas discussing German poets.

I did not notice all the surrounding shadows

Or luminous choirs of finished light flooding the empty street.


Clouds covered a suicide of luminal stars,

Where words for the beloved became too faint to hear.


A rustling light to the east was only a false lead.


A depressant of night

Completed a sequence beyond our ability to return.


At the vesper bell,

There were hospitals

And distance whispers of fountains from Giardino delle Cascate –

It was a life’s short decay in unfinished history.


Stone angles knelt over small boxwoods.


To be loved is rare,

But is of no lasting significance.

I know we are not near,

And cannot hear your voice.