Light Had Come

Wine-red lips, honeyed and soft,
crimson tender, blue lotus...
toward them, cigarette-scarred,
harsh and dark.
Where is Radha? The red lotus?

Gone.

In the window frame, in dead of night
I want no swaggering of stars,
no secret love-talk with the beloved.

Roses from the high-rise, potted
arrangements (my tended garden withered away, and so on, and so on),
so
smoke spirals, cloudbanks remain,
flowers remain, pots remain, the garden-lover's
gentle smile or windblown hair
...all there,
yet gone in an instant.

Fire is my brother...
Let light come, for
light had come.