every breath a bead in an endless strand
"I'm not sure about all this, but I'm starting to get the hang of it."
nothingsweet empty skynot a care in the worlda dee...
Terzanelle of Kosovo FieldsRichard JacksonJune 200...
concreteplain gray highwaywoven across the landiri...
LITTLE GIDDING (No. 4 of 'Four Quartets') T.S....
The Wasteland -- T.S. Eliot <!-- end head...
Becoming in Black (after Ghalib)
by William Dennis
Hard men live easy, it's true, and, yes, easy men live hard.
Only man . . . even woman . . . tries and fails to be humane.
What mad-moon gravity sets me full in that direction
Daily, by choice and aware, startled when she's still not there?
Her face would coax vision out of the most reluctant eye;
Even her green-backed mirror wants to see what it reflects.
My wound waits in the grave, while I mourn the death of all joy;
Glancing up, my tears embellish an orchard from your face.
She swears this binding oath: not to torment my remains more;
One so becoming in black is quick to don mourning.
