You were always
quicker than I was
to read portents.
Every word I said
meant something
ominous;
every silence
something
disappointing.
You never went
to the saint-
despised circus
or purchased anything
off the ice-cream
man.
(You said
clowns were creepy
and a little bit evil,
and the ice-cream
man knew where
you lived.)
Your face would go
suddenly guilty –
a worry-lined look
to mistake
for compassion.
(Foot falls on
grave grass
made you shiver,
you said.)
A mad moon rose
red as a blood
eclipse tonight.
Hush, hurry
home again,
home again.
The world is done.
