There Are No Lilacs

There are no lilacs.
Lies, in April –
forgetful ashfalls delay us.

Everywhere, elegies
quicken in the dead land
that I stand above.

My dull eyes
in the ombre evening
surprise me with neon.

Pinpricked, the towers
are a horizon suffused
with my vertigo.

Heap of broken images
the last sun
beats on.

I don’t read just words
on screen, but the wind’s message:
the ferrous tang.

I am the shadow
on the red rock, rising.
Hope of rain.

There Are No Lilacs

Dry dust gritting my
teeth, the vision of lilacs.
Your tears.

Forgotten gardens
stir memory and desire
as I look into

the heart of light.