tell me why
the coppice lies
all alone
sown inside
an isle by
someone gone
their leaves will go
in columns of
red and gold
the weaver knows
them all alone
by names of old
O tell me where
the coppice fares
I must go
within the mould
I've fallen there
forever moored
and gone are all
the follies of
satyr ghosts
fauning o'er
the colors
of their paper boats
when you were
something better