You are not random picked. I tell you you
     Are much like the one I knew before, that died.
     Shall we sit down, and drink and munch a while

One by one they appear in 
the darkness: a few friends, and 
a few with historical 

Now since his death you've lost the wish for sleep,
In which you might mislay the wound of feeling:

I look round the cluttered
icons of your room:
quilt, photo, stuffed bird.

Martin sat young upon his bed
A budding cenobite,
Said ‘Though I hold the principles

He licks the last chocolate ice cream
from the scabbed corners of his mouth.
Sitting in the sun on a step

Here is a room with heavy-footed chairs,
A glass bell loaded with wax grapes and pears,

A polished table, holding down the look

The huge wound in my head began to heal
About the beginning of the seventh week.
Its valleys darkened, its villages became still:

New face, strange face, for my unrest.
I hunt your look, and lust marks time
Dark in his doubtful uniform,

Next may rain leach discontents
From your dust, wash what remains