In fits and spurts to the telephone pole—
I leaned—where I overheard the caprice of my sorrow
That has built to magnitudes thought improbable,
A storm, wherein the wind I chased
The memory of you, seeking out
What has gone by and finding
I can’t remember all I once knew
About you and the time we shared.
Mountains beyond mountains
From which a crimson sky did bleed
Below heaven’s shadowy fingers.
I wished the lights had not cut,
When above, a calm blue pediment,
A waxing crescent moon.