Poezja

You wanted to be covered
with dahlias, unmeasuring―
the depth of tears.


How do I go finding
an elegy―
in dim moonlight?

En route I will pluck
the stars, in September.

And when the river goes in spate
and you are submerged,
I will spread a blanket of poetry.

Who wants the eternity
of soul. My love was very frail.