Canticle of the Wind
I know only what the mad know
about loss, I bear their memories
in my breast, carry their loves, their longings
as if mine were not enough
to undress the rapture in the rose.
Behold the verses of other girls names,
the stricken kiss and the stolen caress
on the wind, behold the Seven Sisters
and the man without a star to bless.
I offer this sad song in memory
of your hair falling about your breasts,
the Hunter’s Moon rises, offers no solace.