What would she be doing now, my sweet Andean Rita

of rush and tawny berry;

now when Byzantium asphyxiates me, and my blood

dozes, like thin cognac, inside of me.

Where would her hands, that showing contrition

ironed in the afternoon whitenesses yet to come,

be now, in this rain that deprives me of

my desire to live.

What has become of her flannel skirt; of her

toil; of her walk;

of her taste of homemade May rum.

She must be at the door watching some cloudscape,

and at length she’ll say, trembling: “Jesus … it’s so cold!”

And on the roof tiles a wild bird will cry.