Long ago cloisters had the sacred Truth
of Holy Scripture painted on their walls.
These pictures warmed the hearts of men of faith
and eased the chill inside their stringent cells.

I still recall the little whitewashed lodging where
we lived in peace, just off a major thoroughfare.

Off

in a huff,

I missed,

almost,

the moral of

a dancer, the Eve

of all such, ever,

In zigzagging overhead cables
strung with ornaments,
in trash, in residual playbills
for holiday events,
in rain and the silver unsplendid
ghost of a winter sun,
sorrow for something ended.

Pack it up, boys; we’re done.