26.

The renitency of the will opposes all

In love, the moon on the marsh is awash

In the dark of the winter sky, and your eyes

Are orbs, animated in ways surmised.

The dust on your hands is not snow

But has the same hue: the wistful pull

Of desire is like perpetual exile.

The leaves hang on the bare limbs

In the wood, and the deer hide in the hollow.

The years have passed, almost unnoticed

And we, with a certain stubbornness, have gone

With breath itself into the dark, our pulses

Quickened but numb to the buffets, the wind

A dream like the whisper across our faces.