I have poured over that
and you—hated how honest the torrent is
and let it be mine
not shelteredneither poplar nor linden
the shade shattering just where I left
and I wonder in advance
and cannot wait —
painting the phosphorescent side
of leaveswhere mind and cloud
make pageand I sail my own
transfigurations — these long time ago
a pyre, as crisp curtailment fulfills
belief.