Cento

You dragged your feet when you went out-
those sure abutments... gone.
Defenseless under the night:
your laugh, your scarves, the gloss of your makeup,
scraps of moon-
romance had no part in it.
Daffodil time
is past,

but that strange flower, the sun,
is just what you say:
hasteless
in the nothingness,
the way, in a field of sunflowers,
you can see every bloom's
eyes - waking.
You...

you once said,
"There are many truths,
but they are not parts of a truth."
Then the trees, at night, began to change.
You said, "let's catch one that comes low,"
but I'm afraid I'm not much use.

...Forgive me if you read this.
The marker slants, flowerless, day's almost done.
You lie there asleep on the bed
and your legs lose all sensation.