with great art to copy all that you saw in the glass
i shall create if not a note a hole
even though restless hearing raindrops at the pane
What is the late november doing
like a dozing whale on the sea bottom
we have bowed to idols with elephantine trunks
no way out of the problem of pathos vs experience
and binding with briars my joys and desires
i think of the friends
you are unlike to encounter
the distance between us long ago
rendering death and forever with each breathing
tomorrow is easy but today is uncharted
blue latitudes and levels of your eyes
have told you all and still the tale goes on
where no sea leaps upon itself
Of your round mirror which organizes everything
i think it is part of my heart but it flickers
of remembrance, whispers out of time
i swear i think there is nothing but immortality
at work, but no — he has surprised us
it is simple to ache in the bone or the rind
mere forgetfulness cannot remove it
the name of the author is the first to go
