who was nearly a god.
Patroclus resembled him; they wore
the same armor.
Always in these friendships
one serves the other, one is less than the other:
the hierarchy
is always apparant, though the legends
cannot be trusted–
their source is the survivor,
the one who has been abandoned.
What were the Greek ships on fire
compared to this loss?
In his tent, Achilles
grieved with his whole being
and the gods saw
he was a man already dead, a victim
of the part that loved,
the part that was mortal.
a bed of stars, herethey linger in the summer eveningand the evening turnscold with their terror: itcould all end, it is capableof devastation. All, allcan be lost, through scented airthe narrow columnsuselessly rising, and beyond,a churning sea of poppies–Hush, beloved. It doesn’t matter to mehow many summers I live to return:this one summer we have…
Speech disturb you? We’reAlone now; we have no reason for silence.Can you see, over the garden-the full moon rises.I won’t see the next full moon.In spring, when the moon rose, it meantTime was endless. SnowdropsOpened and closed, the clusteredSeeds of the maples fell in pale drifts.White over white, the moon rose over the birch tree.And…
she cannot fill in what she knows is there.Within the unsupported line, she knowsthat life is missing; she has cutone background from another. Like a child,she turns to her mother.And you draw the heartagainst the emptiness she has created.
nor hear againthe lutes of paradise among the olive trees,by the clear pools under the cypresses. Timebegins now, in which he hears againthat pulse which is the narrativesea, at dawn when its pull is strongest.What has brought us herewill lead us away; our shipsways in the tinted harbor water.Now the spell is ended.Give him back…
and the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies since last summerand they wanted to exhibit them, the brave onesleaping off the high rocks — bodies crowding the water.The nights were humid, still. The stone was cool and wet,marble for graveyards, for buildings that we never saw,buildings in cities far away.On cloudy nights, you were blind. Those…
And weed, and soon the birds and ancientsWill be starting to arrive, bereaving pointsSouth. But never mind. It is not painful to discussHis death. I have been primed for this –For separation – for so long. But still his face assaultsMe; I can hear that car careen again, the crowd coagulate onasphaltIn my sleep. And…
