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
…the Sea and all her ships
are women you are too certain of —
who would not marry you for love.
Dear friends, who’ve passed these nights with us!
Miles, and miles, and miles, and dry bread . . .
Distract me, my native fields,
From all that has happened to me,
The abyss that swallowed my loved ones
For you, I dissolve a handful of
Burnt hair in the glass.
So you will not eat, not sing,
Not drink, not sleep.
…always the sun failed again
for the evening, and the short grass fell dull
in the shadows, out of the slant-light.
I weep easily and often
now for the world.