We’re out of love again and wandering
with other birdwatchers over the cedar shakes,
spying on spring nesting sites where great
migrations end and settle into familiar patterns
of rearing and weaning.
you led me alone
into the sandhills, told me how you were named
for the lindens that grow like smaller oaks
or elms in Europe’s parks
I know what my heart is like
Since your love died
The way the world is not
astonished at you
it doesn’t blink a leaf
when we step from the house
…the Sea and all her ships
are women you are too certain of —
who would not marry you for love.
For you, I dissolve a handful of
Burnt hair in the glass.
So you will not eat, not sing,
Not drink, not sleep.
Ah, little archer, so you thought
to hide from me there
in Zenophila’s eyes!
When you, that at this moment are to me
Dearer than words on paper, shall depart,
And be no more the warder of my heart…