easily, my dear, you move, easily your head
and easily as through the leaves of a photograph album i’m led
looking and loving our behaviours pass
easy for him to find in your face
the pool of silence and the tower of grace,
to conjure a camera into a wishing rose;
simple to excite in the air from a glance
the horses, the fountains, the sidedrum, the trombone
and the dance, the dance.
grouped invalids watching the flight of birds
and single assassins.
you stand now before me, flesh and bone
these ghosts would like to make their own.
are they your choices?
wind shakes the tree; the mountains darken;
and the heart repeats though we would not hearken:
“yours is the choice, to whom the gods awarded
the language of learning and the languge of love”