45*21

These last moments
I mean to say, the ones that just passed
into possible fodder for short History
I saw the e and the manikin torso
as if floating from a window
Then the swirling
Timbers floating up nostrils
also in there, the grass
Like splendid chambers of the mind
in a Spring time brocade
The sin of shame
Made man of no design
hang on to the balastrade
pointed toes, the edge of flowers
A queen's reverence
for pointed caps
On flowers so delicate
in which rivers pass
a rainy day gloss in glow
Then we sat for the moon
in blooming nighttime's hearth