My heart is several broken, and I am several sad.
The sun’s a clouded messenger, and I am clotted cream.
My night’s a waking ambulance, light’s a faded dream.
I’ve torn too many pieces, my needle is bare of thread.
I fear that I am living, I know that I am dead.
The moon’s a distant negative, dust a constant cloth.
There is no airless fire, there are no moneyed moths.
I love, who never happened, I happened, to be mad.
St-Lambert, circa 1986.