They say the sun will come back
at midnight
after all

Two boards with a token roof, backed
Against the shelving hill, and a curtain
Of frayed sacking which the wind absently

the wild things and planted the peaches and the rest
   of the late orchard that is dry wood covered with moss

You with a muse of your own
in the old gallery
that profile of grave beauty

But there is only one of you
they say as though they knew
and it may even be true

The sun was touching the wet black shoulders of olives
in a chipped dish descended from another century

You who waited here before me
in silence mothers of silence
I always knew you were present

You have been evoked so often
like some relative in office
whom we have heard of by name

Look at you bringing 
Your children up just as formerly 
And look at me back again 

Dear Nobody,
                       We are the hands she left—
three fingers wire-bound and strapped