poem for dad

love me at last, or if you will not
weak-winged is song
gone are the three, those sisters rare
why are the things that have no death
moonlight deep and tender
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
god
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
therefore i may not
earth travails
up from the south at break of day