black poetry

there was never a sound beside the wood but one
perhaps it is no matter that you died
glass-blower of time
see, from this counterfeit of him
uplifting, as the wind blew
the arches of the red bridge
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
as i lie roofed in, screened in
did you ever hear of