My neighbor was a cemetery
in the trench-coat days of youth
when a candle and a sad song
were the symbols of love and truth.
I pondered love and truth
on the work of moles and voles
in the clutches of Virginia Creeper
in a commune of quiet souls.
A voyeur among quiet souls
a slave in royal quarters
a stone where I seemed to linger
two hearts entwined and mortared.
Two souls entwined and mortared
two hearts that beat as one
two names now all forgotten
two lovers a black hole sun.
The weight of a black hole sun
the lightness of youth and love
an infinite celestial waltz
between Boreas and the dove.