I’ll be late for the meeting

we arranged. When I arrive, my hair

will be grey. Yes, I suppose I grabbed

at Spring. And you set your hopes much too high.

I shall walk with this bitterness for years

across mountains or town squares equally,

(Ophelia didn’t flinch at rue!) I’ll walk

on souls and on hands without shuddering.

Living on. As the earth continues,

with blood in every thicket, every creek.

Even though Ophelia’s face is waiting

between the grasses bordering every stream.

She gulped at love, and filled her mouth

with silt. A shaft of light on metal!

I set my love upon you much too high.

And in the sky arranged my burial.