93.

For him, there is only one poet: his wife.

All the others lack something, unless

Perhaps they are dead. Love is like that

Sometimes. The moon over the Caspian

Is not like that over Rome, or was it

The Black Sea? It’s the ground like a premise

That is a lunatic conclusion

Already. The wind carries the rain

Like memory. In her words his youth lies

And in her eyes her words almost.

The asymptote of desire defies

An exactness that desire wants. So for us

The rain freezes on the heath and we,

Homeless, are naked before the stars.