ABSTRACT
for Georg Trakl Your face, so pale now it is blue. And in the icy, dead moons of your eyes, the things you loved are trembling; all utterly blue— The small, soft breasts of your sister. Vienna's night—alone; frosted stairways. Blue sonata, blue rosary of morning, blue sun. The river, and the sleek angel stepping from its waters, offering a robe of woven larkspur. And the azure pearls of opium, asleep in your palms— as if, from the glazed balcony of your cheeks, blue tears had fallen.
