Old Money, no. 1

                            A fortune lost

              while petals of day-lilies wafted

   downwards, towards the

                         papier-mâché moon,

                                    half-sunk in waves.

            Something more gruesome:

                                 a friendly hello

heard in the night’s wet vapors,

                             her mouth, lips

            slightly open. 

Call me when you  mean goodbye,

            ‘til then I have the

                 image, of your hand

                                    trailing mist