Dorin Popa writes

The treacherous hour in which all mix up
 
’tis as if
nothing hits on anything
things pass, alas! one through another
without effort, without pain
and the scented fate
enchants them, passes them

my comfort
has long stopped
to come around
my confidence has withered
and the distance
has drawn dizzyingly close

now, late, I remember
a song for which
I’ve prepared so much
a song which
I’ll never get
to sing
even




The Scented Mourner -- Stephen Mackey