Lorraine

Your smile is beyond reach, sadness in our fortune, beyond gleanings of the wheat, hear soon the little moans, sitting in the private gloom, it echoes in our bones, the shadow of Saint Anthony, falls across this seat, summer grounds of the infirmary, then comes dawn and sleeping groans, footsteps echo in empty shoes, somehow look at silent 'phones, the doctor's say nothing, there are things they can't do, love is detached from feeling, grant what we cannot reach, in this Catholic room, proclaimed by the sea, in our heads stupid tunes.