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Poem	And where, friend Quo, lay you hiding across malignant half my years or so? One evil faery it was workt night, with amoroso pleasing menace, the panes shake where Lie-by-the-fire is waiting for his cream. A tiger by a torrent in rain, wind, narrows fiend's eyes for grief in an old ink-on-silk, reminding me of Delphi, and, friend Quo, once was safe imagination as sweet milk. Let all the flowers wither like a party. And now you have abandoned own your young & old, the oldest, people to a solitudinem of mournful communes, mournful communes. Status, Status, come home.
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