The room was lit
when I lost
Ants have drawn a waving black line
from the glue round the letter
to last night’s crumbs on the table
to the wide open door.
Narcissus of Lovers
More beautiful than whatever figures in imagination
or what she had seen sometimes in mirrors
or in window panes—
perhaps it is the white lily’s breeze
or the hue of this enchanting spring
which turns stone to silk & perfume & flowers & clouds
or the blue of the yellow-beaked bird—
No!—so tender is this moment’s face,
Its liberated beauty is pure grace.
In her memory, mirrors shattered one by one.
A narcissus she became. Not in love with herself, she sat by the pond.
Compendium of Saints
Out of his reach is the flower with pink thorns
on top the brick dome.
the façade’s tile
the stones round the well’s mouth and the grave
a dry tree with a shallow shadow
the grievous palm
the grass in ruins —
I wish it were the tangle of thorns,
it was the minaret of separation.
Empty, the dome stands
in the serene naked blue —
His hand cannot reach the flower with pink thorns.