those old friends (or just that one) 
you have abandoned to a drought 
of years-- last conversation 
about literary criticism and tolstoy
left interrupted-- and you greet 
reanswering how much land a man needs-- 

what has happened, happens still-- 
a gathering of counterpoint and tension, 
this now, w/o space-- 

which is bathetic (i confess, 
i confess, i do) but-- this moment 
slivers its rail of rain
continuously, permanantly falling,
hitting-- the world so much
impressionable wave--

and i, i am facades of mirror 
upon vestige of puddle and gutter--
a sewer of river and sea
wrought of silvers grave--

         o, love--
         i have no right
         but by your grace
         you give me