Poem 57

this autumn comes at last

To bring her cold winter glance

                                                    

and as the leafs fall from the sun

you say the horizon your new home

now i know the streets empty of you

and galleries missing the only art i seek

its hard not to weep just to think

as i make away to writers of the dead

again i say its you who spelt it wrong

again i say its you who feeds on war

as i glance to the sky

i know it's hard not to weep to think

and you say the horizon is your home