With the fragrance of broken lilacs
the lost girls of our youth
haunt us like dead apostrophes
O my vine my christmas tree my
blue chip rainbow trout
where are you shining now?
My sunday morning heartbanger my
laughter benedictine my panic-picnic
are you still ringing today?
We cry crowded by images in an empty room
my root and branch my lost lilac
where do you live with whom?