lyric poetry

my son is dead and i am going blind
when you come tonight
she knows a cheap release
white foam flower, red flame flower
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
let me be sad
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
the old songs
they in the darkness gather and ask
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
the old west, the old time
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
long ago, in the young moonlight
in the sphere