Classic Poem

Always these gallows,
this crowd, the eyes
that meet and turn away,
these daggers of defeat
that hide in the bricks of this house,
in seasons to come,
in the very seeds of fruit.

Always these cafes,
these wounding tongues
that articulate through smoke
like eyes that search and search.

In eyes, in shivering hands,
in laurel, in mirrors —
always the face of death
masked like a prince of the heart,
a knight who comes
to awaken your feast.