(—Who wounded you, my love.
Who took your secret shadow. Who brought you
to this place dear night plus day.
And now, nothing sleeps as you sleep
bruised spark, since you’ve become matter,
since you’ve fallen to the wide earth, to
sleep near me . . .
You whom I call you:
whatever touched you, whatever got in the way
I loved that too,
the kiss of the other person, the little extra
redness on the throat of the finch,
my horizontalness, your verticality—)