poetry anthology

at midnight
beneath my window in a city street
lady, your heart has turned to dust
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
there were three in the meadow by the brook
as a white candle
sleep, gray brother of death
there by the window in the old house
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
the swan existing
have you seen walking through the village
who is the runner in the skies