chrysanthemums in summer

cold breeze comes from far away

lights of city burn low

light of mind is cold, frozen

across the prequels & sequels

one fly burning on edge of body

three cats dead in the hunt

the shadows won't let the city be

the sparrows won't let the tigers be

that's where it all boils down to:

circle out the mirrors

smash through the mazes

build the mausoleum of time, 

brick by brick,

till it all comes crashing down

then you seek, in vain, for the crumbs,

you pull out your raw eyes 

for they have seen it all,

they have seen the sun and the moon bleed

they have seen the stars turn into demons of relentless grief

they have seen the cold, sharp space

between the blade and the wrist 

but when they saw children from lonely shores 

as they stole oranges from pockets of lovers lost in salt & sand

and sold them to the wise clown on the other side

of the river,

the god of your kindness knew

that you had to scoop them out of the listless sockets

and free them from the ghosts that scream up this mad dark storm 

each time you kneel before the haunted altars of mercy and misery

and thus, finally, you see the bridges as they burn 

and the insects as they get fatter by the hour

even Oedipus, loser, had seen them thus.

and then you move out,

hug a huge, ancient tree

and weep

for the tides shall heave 

their songs of sadness 

yet again, and the little dogs of love

shall hold Shakespeare in their tiny paws

and wag to tender tunes of Aladdin and other timid trivia

yet again.

but you know all these

even the rain does.