A POEM OF WHITE YEARNING
Oh this white yearning;
the nature thereof?
Means what to me now here
alone in the deep dark
midst of the stikland trees
where Hope and Truth
seem to be like two guinea fowls
scouring the dream terrain
for crumbs, and lost lonely
kisses;
Oh this burning ache;
with only concrete near
and the dumb bachelor
stumblings of
my shadows wheeling through the air
of my iridescent longing.