narrative poetry

were it not for that singular smell
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
melancholy, blue it was
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
and with the humming bird
she knows a cheap release
they may talk of love in a cottage
some one complained to the master
the little white prayers
along the banks
i had a dream and i awoke with it
listen
when night drifts along the streets of the city
out of the deep and the dark