The old letters. A slender pile bound with a raffia string.
Where expressions are droll and careful. The quiet discourse.
The slant of the night-lamp across the page.
I, writing with an exploratory hand. You, answering
my movements as nobody else ever had.
Where the hours are small, I am at home, the crickets
listing their regrets alongside me.
The orgy of song gathering in the air.
The rhythmic convulsions, accumulating, till the sky
trembles and blinks.
Twilight and feelings of loss, ending comes before the end; again
and again, the pool is spent, and still blind will works to fill it up.