just write ,it would whisper , in black
and in white,when it is still dark night.
one must take in the night,its two roses
sleeping in the night ,in waking yellow
and crimson, rising from a little earth
to higher reaches, where wind strikes
and the sun strikes a flower into being.
come to balcony opening to a street’s night
project to a street, a stream of silent men
shuffling feet in absence, in their futures
all the while a black increasing, to diffuse
beyond the apartment, beyond a gnarled tree
now in the room, before a curtain of sound
a sound of marriage strikes a stick of holes
to a music of bodies , in a night of black
as it turns orange beyond a dead- standing
tree, a wishful timber tree of old dreams,
its old birds’ dreams,staring at its stumps.