You can’t complain
when the ghosts come calling;
the rings on your fingers are a shame…
Thunder and now this!
The sky answered back blankly;
a blight of crows making soft a kiss..
Subtractions make a whole
mess of desire; the lamps are
silent but for heating the bronze bowl.
The birds hide the ground
and take turns to gripe;
a scuttle and a screech, before no sound