I shut the door
and turn the key,
light a fire and lean
on the piano.

The black notes
come easily to me
and I finger quickly
a tune I know.

Your body appears,
radiant in light,
on the bed draped
in shadow.

You pull to you
the sheet of night:
I tremble and run
in the meadow.

For the glory of love, friends
I push away. Stretch every dollar
for time alone, to feel again
the bitterness, and then savour
longing, for as long as I must.

I live to suffer, to endlessly bask
in what was lost. The low hills
are my home, the ancient orchard
my church. I pick the best fruit.
Goats follow me, nibbling my rags.

I

I’m an unknown tulip seller
wasting along empty streets
delivering sweet-scent bouquets
to locked-down city doors.

II

Why did I take this chance
to walk away? I remember still
that night; the shooting stars
shot through our wilted hearts.

III

I place a weak-stemmed flower
in the deserted square, a gift
for you, with a note which says,
“Take my offering of regrets.”

She must have been beautiful, Prince,
and your love for her as the Ganges flows.

She must have hurt you, for you to wish
you’d never experienced the dream.

It’s vanity to walk beside beauty
and trust the pleasures of the heart.
All this was well known.

Did you tear the jewels from your ears
for being so duped?
And was the pain not enough?
Did your pride demand more?

You haven’t fooled me,
I know why you sat under a tree
for forty-nine days and nights.
I know why your legs
are awkwardly crossed.

The serenity chiselled on your face,
the laugh lines sanded away―
your own hand the torturer of flesh
that once caressed her…

Or was that too, poor Prince,
something which happened only
in your infinite mind?