Not a starlit sky,

You a man of wood and soil,

Of virility and domesticity – 

Have rejuvenating supplies of milk and eggs.

You don’t find


In my tavern

Where unresting spirits hover tirelessly.

The ashes 

Of their mortal bodies

Want nourishment –


Spring and bloom,

Smiles and tears,

Milk and eggs.

They follow you till your bed

And hide under your pillow,

Behind your mirror,

In your closet,

In the creases of your cotton shirt 

Till you sweat.