She sits on dark grass
Pain that is too much to bear
She sits on darkgrass, like a migratingbird with a broken wing, calling his name.The moon,like a ball of brightwool,lazes softly in a tree’sfork,its feet hanging over intospace.She has chosen night for hertask because she is empty;there are no angels here.A light rainbeats its gentlerhythm on theleaves,a benighted squirrel jerks its hairy head, suspiciousof thesilence; andsheslipsslowlyaway.