Length is now quite another thing; that is,
waiting or coming right up slap into the sun,
spreading into the land to cross, the smell of
diesel oil on the road. The friends there are,
as if residing in what instantly goes with it,
as if longer than the infinite desire, longer
and across into some other thing. Keeping
the line, running back up into the mountains,
denied. And so in the actual moment dis-
honest, actually refusing the breakage, and
your instinct for the whole purpose
again shows
how gently it is all broken
and how lightly, as you
would say, to come in.
All the milky quartz of that sky, pink and
retained, into the sun. See such a thing climb
out of the haze, making the bridge straight
down into the face-which way, this way,
length beyond this, crossed. The dawn thing,
suddenly isn't tenuous, and the reach back to
the strand is now some odd kind of debris:
how strange to
say this, which abandons of
course all the joy of not
quite going, so far
I would not have recognised it if the sun
hadn't unexpectedly snapped the usual ride,
and with you a real ironist, your length
run off out into some other place. Not the
mountains, nothing to do with the sacred child.
The continued quality I know is turned down,
pointed into the earth: love is a tremor, in
this respect, this for the world without length.
Desire is the turn to a virtue, of extent
without length. How
I feel is still along this path,
down the cancelled line and
even in the dawn
as almost a last evening, coming back the
day before. Where they all live, and to say
such a thing is as you say it, promptly no
clouds but the sun. How else, in the face
of so much prudence, as the total staff of life;
as the friends, glittering (who would ever have
been ready for that? The sun, the red
shift; your hair
is at the moment copper, a
bronze mark, and the absurd
gift is just some
allowance, a generous move. How would that
ever have been so, the length taken down and
my nervous rental displayed. Not just holding
or drawing the part. You are too ready, since I
know you still want what we've now lost, into
the sun. Without either, the mark of our light
and the shade as you walk without touching
the ground. Lost it, by our joint throw,
and the pleasure, the breakage is no longer, no
more length in which we quickly say
good-bye, each to each at the meridian. As now
each to each good-bye I love you so.