Winds Exhausted.

In the dark, my eyes are bitter, the winter winds moan
And beat at glass windows.
Hunting season has come to pass-the October nights
Are chilly and the water falls into the well.
Darkness comes. Shadows heave in and out of dark
Lights, space is continual as a drum-
I left you alone late one night in August,
Your heart is temporal as doom. Some nights I dream
About Sylvia Plath, toiling and tossing in her
Feather bed, humming dead languages in my ear.
She left me here, alone, like Poe, alone, like birds,
They shelter me like words of wisdom and whisper dead
Things.
In the dark, I cannot rhyme worth a damn. I think about
Vermont and Kentucky, where my bitches reside,
I think about simple promises and things I have lost,
And use my thinking cap like they taught us in school.
No one admires me. Everyone says I am a faggot,
A black sheep, something to be used and thrown away.
No one in Europe hears me sighing, only the doves hear me
Crying.