Lolling down the edge of time
where the flower months fade as the days move over,
Days that are long like lazy rhyme,
nights that are pale with the moon and the clover,
summer there is a dream of summer
rich with dusks for a lover’s food—
Who is this harlequin, who is the mummer,
you or time or the multitude?
Still does your hair’s gold light the ground
and dazzle the blind till their old ghosts rise?
Then, all you care to find being found,
are you yet kind to their hungry eyes?
Part of a song, a remembered glory—
say there’s one rose that lives and might
whisper the fragments of our story:
kisses, a lazy street—and night.