My death is a lengthening,
eastern shadow creeping.
As the sun sets on a westerly life
fountain coins, falling, deepening.
Throw away nothing
of a poets reaping recollection,
Glowing golden within the chaff,
darkened wheat in separation.
He plays to a spotlight,
an audience foreshortened
in the darkness, beyond the true sound
of his winter whitened curtain.
The azimuth of the eyes
reveals the sweetness
on his lips,
their twisting of the rind
twirls a scent within the mist.
All is a poem in search of a song
and a song in search of a voice.
A fair curve in a slow current
need only be,
without having to make a choice.
