I had not counted on my letter’s having not two
but four destinations, tight-lipped when pressed,
writing the poem about England for the newspapers.
I’ve not a soul to swipe an anthem from.
He always sounded bits of paleness in her universe,
his firmer mouth wandered, though hers was the heavier breath.
Some shred of heart the last vestiges of her mind
would not let go—I am as he is, since he is right.
His gait ringing on the steps, his bestowed weight—
despite his unerring ear all has been taken in advance,
he breathes on me the bitter cold of a possessor,
of whose possessions I am knowingly a part.
My warmth has already lain on the panes of his eternity,
there is always a sort of draught between you and me.
While speaking to a friend she hasn’t seen for years,
oh, are the towels hung up to dry? What is ours
remains ours, I called it happiness, let it be misery
or the same aloneness. I had anticipated the entire
echo, would there ever be one to help us to fullness
again? Did I read you correctly, or just the movement
of your lips, should it be done with the eyes or with the breath?
Double jealousy—single is enough—our both referring
to the sea, the beginning, the northern city, dreary
and prosaic. You might have seemed to be made of an alloy,
on the assumption that you and I were translucent.
Remember, under coverlets of cowardice,
the birds on the ceiling and by the glimmer of memory,
the blizzards on the other side of the river?
Look at the map, the date, the town, out of the well
of wells the bed, back, table, elbow, always stove,
broom, money, none, not to sweep, any more—
the deed and the poem are on my side.
Though much, everything even, remains in the notebook.
Incomplete angel, either can speak for both,
we sit when we should stand, somewhat flushed,
in a secondhand bookshop.
And the blizzard of print increases in ferocity,
the long years are running out,
the gravely ill metaphors must eat their fill
before the hearse carries them to the churchyard.