narrative poetry

suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
risen from the dead
wrap the earth in cloudy weather
let us pity those who are better off than we are
long ago, in the young moonlight
tell me less or tell me more
world that changes under my hand
under dusky laurel leaf
why are the things that have no death
we break the glass whose sacred wine
as a white candle
perhaps
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
therefore i may not