From a sky sand-brushed and blurring, rain.
Plants on the sill heave signs of loneliness.
The lamp glows, a pendulous jewel hung

My Hamlet pulls his yes through an architecture of yeses
though it might appear that he merely negates,
sitting in the dark after murder,

Widowers have more dignity.

The flames starting from the ears.

That’s what I say: it’s worth a try.

Meet me, meet me whisper the waters from the train
    window and the small
      skiff adrift

For some of us the only way of knowing we are here at all, going
across and going down,
exquisitely temporal though at no point believable; fragile; tragic.

Stopless wind, here are the columbine seeds I have
collected. What we would do with them is
different. Though both your trick and mine flowers blue

You can still bear them in that phase, the north and
south laid up against each other, constantly erasing
each minute with each minute.

  When I caught sight of them, the secret lovers,
I had been watching the pink-edged white blossoms
  in the garden below