Endymion At Wyaconda

“We could, perhaps, be lovers – “
you whispered in my hand
and disappeared to Indiana,
one year ago. That night,
August heat, black lake, poplar wind
composed a world apart,
and I remember
long hair trailing, white
arms stroking, you
swimming to meet the fallen moon.

What Child Is This…

What child has caused no grief?
Who has not done injury
come yawping, red from the womb?

What infant has not fallen like a leaf,
arms and feet in flurry,
hunting down a human doom?

What youth has not eyed his father’s fief,
abandoned it in fury
taken to a tenant room?

What girl has not burned her maiden wreath,
fled her mother, to hurry
to the common tomb?

What parent has not hid his grief,
worked her worry
into stone upon a solitary loom?