1
You are tired, for the spring
Has washed itself of you, and
The woman you loved is gone.
There are none anymore that you'd
Be sorry to lose, but you still long
For the grief of that first love.
Poetry is simple compared to living,
Something you may rearrange until
It no longer resembles what you felt.
But life has a sadness that you
Can't get at with your hands, that
Resists any attempts at art:
And our hopes for death were too
Immense, like the consolation of the rain,
Or something we no longer mourn.
41
I only wanted closeness with you.
I wanted the intimacy of
Being touched by your entire self.
And now that you are gone
I find only sorrow in the memory
Of your voice, the whisper of your sex;
The sublime that I combed
Through your hair, that now you hide
In the back of your throat.
77
A sonata for the violin and then,
What we understood was silence
And the concealment of grief:
The end of the poetry which
Was the terrible humanity
We recognized in ourselves.
The air scythed by longing,
Our original loneliness surviving
Only as a single regret.
And now, the masons build
A ladder into the warm darkness
To repair the tiles of the moon.