Sumach

An old monk is my night. . . .

Long ago he was young . ..

Song shone between his lips,

And a necklace of round white arms

Fulfilled his throat. . ..

John Crawford

Dried fruit of trees

That blossom in bitterness

Rustle on his bent shoulders . . .

Wry grey flesh festoons his yellow teeth. . . .

My night is old. . . .