No passion for self-defeat: A poem 

This spring is like growing 

figments of out-of-sync imagination 

on the tree of my soul 

I can feel something missing 

from the breathing whole  

Eros’ misbegotten arrow 

He tried and I am tired, but am still wired 

to the electricity of destiny. 

These streets of my life 

are old, but hold on to convictions’ gold 

And I can figure out many ways not to be sold 

This new moon has come in my life’s autumn 

with a heat that warms me not 

But I sense its calefaction of my defeat