When I enter hell, almost out of habit
I’ll shout Aspasia! at the first ghost who smiles.

 

I don’t even order a household slave
to slit my veins. Nothing troubles me.

It was our lake, its waters a few spans wide,
and we were two lives too young to be old

Those who dig up the past don’t need to be told
that hardly the millionth of a second

 

A look in the mirror is enough
to convince us we’re someone else.

on which the lunar spring descends‚
blanching every shard with halo splendor,
chips of broken cones, sheen

Not the cricket, but the cat
on the hearth, shining
household god of your scattered clan,