at midnight
my lover lies alone
in the corner of the lakeside pavilion
on a long bench dressed in red
as tired white lilies
are gone into the night


your face is a symbol of love, rushing at him in every dream of pungent desire intertwined with the arousal of lying literary sorrow or shared fabrication and I, along with the lilies, am awash in the joy and jealousy of literature -- lovers die for their illicit love -- the 25th hour meaning life after love, morning glory tucked into your hair

at daybreak,
the lilies are white swallows and I wonder, can a young swallow fly away from such an abyss



over the dreams of others, past the tragedy of romance?

can it?