Aceldama

 
It’s not so seldom that I go to Aceldama, in spring
when, even if alone, I count in strangled
voice, as if neck in noose, the bloody
lunar coins as they set slowly under the
horizon; adrift then goes the star of Spica
and I speak in my sleep of your absence – maimed
words come and go as the tide stifles the shore-line:
What price is my life – hisses that surge in solitude.