April. Dark delays of winter come.
Behind the shutters blind mad hatters play with dice
Rolling snow and clay and fire.
At the edges, small ceramic portraits
Of burning faeries on the sod.
Stealth are the winds that scatter leaves
And shatter the moon on puddles of ice.
Scarce are the tunes that would rid me of the blues tonight.
Now the fire blooms and hangs about the place.
It must be Paris burning. Are we on a honeymoon—
An old man, a little fool and a parrot.
He approaches the heath. Another screed.
The cliff! The cliff! he screams.
Pebbles rush into sand. Sand slides into waves.
Retreat, I say. I feel its frigid breath on my cheek
Turn wet and evaporate.