Cruel King of cold and warmth colliding.
Water running down the stone
As though from Debussy’s Sunken Cathedral
To the last drop, the last holy shine.

April’s clouds confound the concert.
If not the weeks, the days are unkind.
The birds sing in a dead wind
Like a recording of the first flowers.

Homeless, he goes with an overcoat and violin,
The cruel king of the Calendar
Who could never be any other,
Seeking to murder May, his own brother.