narrative poetry

as i lie roofed in, screened in
day is done
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
who will be naming the wind
and my name is truthful
he'd even have his joke
to be able to see every side of every question
high-born race
those black eyes i once so praised
the body may confine
who loves the rain
roses and gold
sun and wind and beat of sea
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies