Twelve Years

The line

that remained, that

became true: . . . your

house in Paris -- become

the alterpiece of your hands.

Breathed through thrice,

shone through thrice.

...................

It's turning dumb, turning deaf

behind our eyes.

I see the poison flower

in all manner of words and shapes.

Go. Come.

Love blots out its name: to

you it ascribes itself.