Wispy drops at dawn’s calling
washes dark mind moratoria
with soothing drops and skin.
It is the woman of all women,
the drop of all drops.
Venereal vials of self pity,
dies to take the floor,
full of longing for attention,
withers at the touch
of the long morning sun.
The slanting afternoon
flies through fleeing hours,
right through your feeble heart.
There is blood to account for,
a feeble lament.
When night quenches all regrets
and the I folds into that shadow
it is customary to think of that
which is beyond the I,
pulling at all strings.