Love couldn’t have been sweeter, when you were
Writing about it in your glorious opera about the sea: the waves.
Were your mannerisms and illnesses a mask?
Mine are, at least, partially. A flight from such desperation
Was needed. Or is that only an illusion for us?
The real world exists in a circle, the turn of a sentence.
Clear, slow, funny, precise: yes. In italics,
Between the neatly printed lines, lie silence. Not yours,
Or his or hers. A common planet divides us. “The ant’s a
Centaur in his dragon world.” Those aren’t words
You dreamed up, but you could have put them down. It’s
Amusing to realize how insignificant we are, or what a small
Part, of the everything you cherished more than
Your voice; its resonance. “Pull down thy vanity.”
“A swollen magpie is a fitful sun.” Again Mr. Pound. You
Despised him, understandably; but these stolen phrases
Echo a concern you knew well. How to be, nay, say—or rather express
One’s own absurdity, without stroking the self.
And to come out not on top: but, a roof under a rainbow on a lake
And house and street. I’ll hold your hand gladly, mouse. Signed off.