& seeing everything, suddenly again together in one place,
, having seen
the same shadow set
the third time over the house,
counting the days backwards, it is the same,
here as ever. On the table the poetry is grapes half darkened; a word I could not read was written by your name; I had half
forgotten you.
& if, of at the lake, your hair wet, turning, I remember
indistinct, as water
is in water waves only
those small birds asleep, only surface, yet flex that memory by even their little weight, & later
as when
with all the houses dark, and you beside me, sleepless, this becomes not silence, when nightly
this bitter multitude of voices, and while, as at the river
something crosses the long slope of the hill
