Poems

from Ten songs to a friend

VII
This mournful moon, this unquietness
This convulsion inside, island
in solitude, dying body
all this I owe you. And they were vast
the things planned, ships,
ivory walls, large words
Concede, always. And it would be December
A jade horse over the waters
Double transparence, suspended line
All these things at the tip of your fingers
And all was undone in the portal of time
In livid silence. Some glass mornings
Wind, the hallowed soul, a sun I don't see
 
This too I owe you.