Black brooms of trees sweep the sky clean;
Sweep the house fronts,
And leave them bleak in sleep.
High up the empty moon
Spills her vacuity.
I dance.
My long black shadow
Weaves an invisible pattern of pain.
The snow
Is embroidered with my happiness.
POTTER'S FIELD
Golden petals, honey sweet,
Crushed beneath fear-hastened feet…
Silver paper lanterns glow and shudder
in flat patterns
On a gray eternal face
Stained with pain.
LIGHTS AT NIGHT
In the city,
Storms of light
Surge against the clouds,
Pushing up the darkness.
In the country,
Is the faint pressure of oil lamps,
That sputter,
Smothered with earth—
Extinguished in silence.