← v6n2, Fall 2007
Poetry · Volume 6, Number 2

29

The ring-doves flew away from the cypress branches;

the petals unhinged like droplets from a spinning umbrella.

The leaves, too, fell, leaving the branches bare.

Below Desolation chalked its path on the ancient garden

pouring concrete over concrete—my lone lament

went unheard in the hardening cement.