i.

Your lips wound me
with the beauty of your poems,
parchment-thin my heart
must always listen,
I do not know what comes over me,
even now
is it my shallow art?

The moon rising near the end of August banishes me
to the hinterland,
sea to sand,
we were destined to meet.

"There are better uses of time.", I protested
you said nothing
and left me
with
a killing frost.

ii.

Leaves fall into an eternal green,
benevolent,
the living branch
loses no tender bark.

The desert that is loneliness
sees another mirage, the hundredth monkey
writes another poem and the sun rises
as if nothing ever happens.