Built myself
in the bricks of Robert Frost
so much sculpture
so much finery
...
The reverse you are.
At eighty or with wife or grandchildren
youth hides in the umbra
a blurred image
...
Wherever the body is
‘I’ get up hidden
run, fly or float
somewhere other I am.
...
Even when she is
even when she is not;
wind blows softly
leaves look greener
...
In the confessions of Sasmita;
another stroke;
making her love deep and visible;
I see my fraility.
...
Flying and flying
looking and looking
searching and searching
whirling and whirling
...
A strange verandah
old and vanquished eyes
toothless sunken cheeks
looking at the road
...
Surrounding is
sharper a knife than diseases
society; more fierce a bullet
than my deserted love;
...