If you could tell me this sense of digression
And certain proclivity toward suffering, that
This will be settled on some future date, justifying
Its now being said,
                            then you might say anything
And still not keep me, or nothing (and hello forever).

It’s not for forgiveness that the wind blows.
Simply, it is toward a place from some other place
It will soon have forgotten, continually forgetting in order
Beautifully to pass;
                             likewise, sitting still or not,
I get mixed up in that romance of the verb
You always withhold, wanting

Only peace. I often dream about you. Thought in my dreams
Is real thought, visiting, never out of delirium.
But bespeaking the crisp death of every real dream.

The disaster has been so easy and so natural;
The words have followed like a fast train;
                                                                and now as if
A sort of train had passed I’m reverently standing
Hemmed in at last by the perfection of a former expression, sad
In a way you’ll understand (“wind that glimmers at night
Amid white sheets”) if only once and for a certain time.