suicide poetry

stern cold man
from floor to ceiling
why do
for truth, for love
i am in love with high far-seeing places
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
let a joy keep you
do the boys and girls still go
brief on a flying night
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
come down at dawn from windless hills
sleep, gray brother of death
desolate and lone
for these white arms about my neck