Hard therapy of the moonlight,
I was never yours to keep;
Sometimes the ailing lady,
Weak as water, flushes amber,
A harvest fever.
Cool and pensive, miles of stars burn
In your stained glass eyes, catch in
Your lashes like fragments of
Dreams, carnivalesque, but still I
Run through nightmares.
Sometimes in cold rooms they harvest
Hearts; my own is relentless as
Nighttime, my own is a knot
Of red-hot regret pulsing deep in
A valley of shame.