He continued to consult her for her beauty

(The host gone to a longing grave).

The story then resumed in day coaches

Both bravely eyed the finer dust on the blue. That summer

(“The worst ever”) she stayed in the car with the cur.

That was something between her legs.

Alton had been getting letters from his mother

About the payments—half the flood

Over and what about the net rest of the year?

Who cares? Anyway (you know how thirsty they were)

The extra worry began it—on the

Blue blue mountain—she never set foot

And then and there. Meanwhile the host

Mourned her quiet tenure. They all stayed chatting.

No one did much about eating.

The tears came and stopped, came and stopped, until

Becoming the guano-lightened summer night landscape,

All one glow, one mild laugh lasting ages.

Some precision, he fumed into his soup.

You laugh. There is no peace in the fountain.

The footmen smile and shift. The mountain

Rises nightly to disappointed stands

Dining in “The Gardens of the Moon.”

There is no way to prevent this

Or the expectation of disappointment.

All are aware, some carry a secret

Better, of hands emulating deeds

Of days untrustworthy. But these may decide.

The face extended its sorrowing light

Far out over them. And now silent as a group

The actors prepare their first decline.