118 The Fall is late: my feet have touched the ground. Despair of falling leaves has burnt these days to gray. Inside my downward eyes, you raise your eyes to gaze At my torn eyes that fall towards your eyes. My eyes lost blue -- I burnt my eyes to gray -- And in my lightened eyes, your eyes will rise alone. There will be doors with keys, and bells with tongues no more; No more of roots and roofs, of rooks and saints. My eyes are slowly circling down with leaves To touch your eyes that rise with lost and lonely winds. I cannot touch you in my eyes. I cannot reach. The Fall is late: I touched the ground with feet.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems