In Winter when the night is wan and cold,
And evening shadows early on the brim
Of the horizon's nose, the dream is sold;
Enubilated purple drawn so slim.
The lips of midnight purse and draw a belt
Of transpositions all across the sky.
Beneath immortal constellations pelt
The waves of worldliness where no souls lie.
You turgid cosmos, where is what I've lost?
In novel spawning maws or in the old
Forgotten corners where the mourners cross
In Winter when the night is wan and cold?
If every speck eternity contains
Remains, then when will he come home again?
A place for my poems 