left subtracted by this modern burned letter
this message better left unturned
this crooked voice not gilt again
by the flourish of a pretty fountain
and a well boxed-up in the dust

the harvest died this year
drought aside, a man marked
madly laughing in blows
on this striped land of furrows
filled with summer’s ash and sadness

the better of us quick to carry on,
bright darts streaking on the sky
before the seasons’ spinning beat
and winter’s bared bloodied teeth
bury in the storms and sunken sun

trips to the world are stalled and stopped
by ghosts of you on the roads
while the bodies of your lovers
living tender years will smother
round a maddened skull and drum

i glimpse the slowly growing holes
in here this house once home
smiling widely at me finding
your books, boxed, rotting
in the corners of our shrinking rooms