every poem from end to end
                             is a desolation now
and the lines grow ever lonelier.

is it ready, the winter of words
to be the prose of bitterness?
loves! long live those who write them
                right! some-
r on blonde satin papers,
might say, in what fall the trees are read

if you be silent or not silent it's one
cling to the image you burn for
slowly roses and tulips
fall in to the tedium you fell into
and once again—to read sorrow
this world becomes a book.

every poem from end to end
                        is a desolation now
and the lines grow ever lonelier