Glass was the street

Glass





Here to me from Krete to this Holy Temple
Where is your graceful grove 
of apple trees and altars smoking 
                      with frankincense. 

And in it cold water makes a clear sound through
apple branches with roses the whole place 
is shadowed and down from radiant-shaking leaves
                      sleep comes dropping. 








so






go

so we may see



lady





of gold arms











doom