And where, friend Quo, lay you hiding

across malignant half my years or so?

One evil faery

it was workt night, with amoroso pleasing

menace, the panes shake

where Lie-by-the-fire is waiting for his cream.

A tiger by a torrent in rain, wind,

narrows fiend’s eyes for grief

in an old ink-on-silk,

reminding me of Delphi, and,

friend Quo, once was safe

imagination as sweet milk.

Let all the flowers wither like a party.

And now you have abandoned

own your young & old, the oldest, people

to a solitudinem of mournful communes,

mournful communes.

Status, Status, come home.