(After Georg Trakl, Rosary Song III)
Decayed thing gliding through rotting room;
shadows on yellow wallpaper; arched in dark mirrors,
our hands’ ivory sadness.
Brown beads trickle through dead fingers.
In the silence
an angel's blue poppy eyes open.
The evening is also blue;
the hour of our death, Azrael's shadow,
further darkens the little brown garden.