White had a claim upon my heart the winter
storms left snow hip-deep on Truro’s arm

his coat is fire, and I, who dress
     my fear to talk it down, want to shelter

An honest man to whom she could say
That her beauty has been a joke.

At the end of August the air is so clear and light
A body could levitate‚

The apple-stars have gently dropped to earth
And settled in the trees, stars you can taste

Laid out in detail in the tree,
The soul glittering for a while in a green body

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

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

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

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