04-02-2018, 02:46 PM
Moebius grief (after The River-Merchant’s Wife, Pound)
We’ll meet again, as children. I’ll be
playing in a flower-filled garden,
you’ll glance on passing, slow down,
turn back, and it all will start again.
I don’t know what your name will be.
We’ll marry young. At first my plaything,
you’ll become more necessary to me
than my own body, our only future
together forever. Yet you will leave.
Something beyond me will call
and you’ll be gone, dragging your feet
maybe, but walking away. Why
will I always be left behind?
Owls louder in trees at night,
sullen seas will grind cliffs, rivers
eat through land. A yellow rose
will bloom in the garden
and die at its time.
I won’t know where to go,
to look for you.
And you will never come.
We’ll meet again, as children. I’ll be
playing in a flower-filled garden,
you’ll glance on passing, slow down,
turn back, and it all will start again.
I don’t know what your name will be.
We’ll marry young. At first my plaything,
you’ll become more necessary to me
than my own body, our only future
together forever. Yet you will leave.
Something beyond me will call
and you’ll be gone, dragging your feet
maybe, but walking away. Why
will I always be left behind?
Owls louder in trees at night,
sullen seas will grind cliffs, rivers
eat through land. A yellow rose
will bloom in the garden
and die at its time.
I won’t know where to go,
to look for you.
And you will never come.