I know the Summer-stained streets must fill, twice—
With Milk, with Flood—of Moon—and Blight.

A world already named, already deposed
in the urge of his stressed
consonants, vowels slack:

They gave me a choice I didn't want: the fate
of a twenty-three-year-old man named
   Frank Spencer Robertson,

I forgot to tell you my husband
died. He was in Spain and something
strange happened with alcohol or water. He loved them

I am doubting the existence of Schubert. 
Pressed, I used to admit this much:
Schubert was there,

Do you mock me, Musil?
I have not reach you, yet
—nor you me. Across the bedroom, we have whiled

Even I can see the flowers are up. I take
like wild vine to my bed. And may I have
a word with the miser measuring out my joys.

You can do that with words, use one
for the other.

You see this life is lived
on the premise that it is worth living it.

This is one of several works paying homage to your memory.
In prior compositions, a chain of association began and ended
at your face. Here your negligent features are just a link—just