Rain thrums the roof and rat-a-tats the window
Just as the winter voices you
imagine in the bible
And in Goethe where even the ink has
its own
Thoughts of paradise and you can
forget about
Italian beaches and the pleasure of
being
Together in the same darkish garden watching
The same moonish paving stone sink
into a path
That might have led toward terrible
terrible youth
The heart empty in its knowledge of
unaquaintance
The way you walk in your best outfit
alone at night
Loveless and lampless down the same
lane where
One hot Mississippi afternoon we saw
the river
Flow past Vicksburg looking as tepid
and tan
As the milk and coffee in our
daughter’s cup
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