I have passed in three movements
though none of them quite so conventional
as they ought to have been;
and the last of my pealing shadows hangs
in the wind, as she shifts in discomfort
and informs herself that the shape of my stopping
for a moment was all too concerned
with the weight of things and not enough the
aesthetic. Still I cannot help the way
I am always downcast in motifs
—I think no one can, who is honest
about the way the night treads, draws the mist together.
Still, these things are no longer here,
twisted asunder and forgotten;
the manuscript lies on the floor, scattered
with no regard for the tonality of my
reprieve.