there are deaths
everyone dies in their time
they fall like ripe fruit
pipkins, persimmons what are they

up against the sky
a thorn bush full of starlings
someone glumly saying that's a year of your lifetime
or a whole one -- how to put it back

there is the face simply evil in the sun
no one sees the man in the sun anymore
the mischevious buddha has passed on

and all his appalling nature, all his splendour, all his might
he left two monographs, one was broken
he left christmas toys