A Heavan warm enough:

A shadow of things past and old

Lay on a four-poster bed

Desperately knotting a wool blanket.

His last touch

Waned from his fingertips as the knot got tighter,

And the will of the pine stained attic silently stiffened.

He watched the last of the dust

Swirl through the boxes of his memories,

And the sun break through the windowpane

were the east rises

Never looking like

Things new and usual.

It brought on a striking light--

That broke through the cracked glass

Illuminating a path

of fadding memory

(A tree bristling, obscuring green in the garden--

The cobwebbed windowsill become alive with the spiders patterns)—

Where heaven is never warm enough,

were the shadows of leaves bend through the day

and were old men finally fall asleep.