Angel Of The Moon

No one is more white
than she, more melancholy.

You think she is looking ar you?

She is looking at no one

You think she feels your skin
as moonlight falls across your shoulders?

She feels nothing.

You think she wants to come down,
nest in that tree with the sleepwalking ouls,
rest on your window sill?

She wants nothing

In the nave of the sky
she's a bouquet of calla lilies,
Blooming for the funeral of the world.