Time does wonders. But should it come unjustly,
with the throb of guilt: we aren’t at home.

I am a dead man who wanders
nowhere announced

Filled by nothing other than our suffering.
Conform to us exactly!

Under the olive trees the light pours out its seeds,
poppies appear and begin to flicker,
burning the oil that feeds their fire;

Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
thorns illuminate the night. And the thunder

Rome in November evening many thanks
the smooth marble reef the cold tile-faces
the spray of lights before the gate closes

Whatever comes to pass: you know your time,
my bird, you put on your veil
and fly through the mist to me.

No one jumps off.
For we know only love

Beneath a foreign sky
shadow roses
shadow

When at your back the seagull swoops and cries
the order to sink comes eastward into sight.