nostalgia is the cool night wind
that blows through the dimly streetlit roads
the alcoves and secret groves
and overgrown paths and lakeside rails
and a solitary cat slinks on by,
eyes bright and cold
and singing of heartbreak and hopeless hope
and winds that cease to blow
in the city there is a garden
in the garden there is a lake
at the center of the lake is a pagoda
on the pagoda is a stone table
on the table is a vase of flowers
but the flowers are plastic
and the vase is a fake
and the table is wobbly
and the pagoda has no bridge
and the lake is artificial
and the garden is landscaped
and the city, the city just keeps on churning . . . .
. . . and my mind cannot stop turning
around and around the image of you
so i write this poem
to help me put you aside