.
The clouds run ashore at the harbour cranes.
They sow notes of polish
beneath a sun-swollen moon
who wears their plots down
to a cinder shawl.
In the terrace of my beloved
a wisteriafall sprinkles
her still glass-dome
with memories.
She stems
a sister violet sap
in her eyes.
I only breathe
and scent
a pollen of end.
