Leucha

In the Catholic rooms, proclaimed by the sea, grant me what it took, for saying those terrible things, in the shadow of Saint Anthony, who falls across my ring, as by dawn and falling gloom, we wait at the infirmary, footsteps echo in empty shoes, the doctor's say nothing, sometimes it's not to be, love is detached from us, our mother's babies we swoon, hear summer's dark seething, sitting in the television room, it echoes our silly tunes, even gleanings of the wheat, no loss in our fortune, her smile beyond reach.