on that evening the damp house ejected me into the damp
raindrops breaking the shimmering black of the pavement,
each unevenness an unwilling mirror dimly mirroring.
raindrops break the contours of my head
but my hands are not free to hold all its pieces.
walking, a somnambulist forever sundered from sleep,
blinking at unfocused lights ahead—blink again, it disappears.
my shoulders sag, and out of habit your voice murmurs
softly in the cold wet fog—dim music tempting, taunting me
on the endless path stretched out, the endless path behind.
but mountains have wrought the shape of my shoulders
and the soft chill of Scottish dew has moistened my lips.
I fear not the dark, the wet, the lonely turnings in the road.
losing myself down the years, I had no thought for you,
only for some flowers wilting on the tomb of Aurelius,
cold palm on cold marble, wet feet in the wet night.
as I become one with the fog my soul surrenders
to the mute sorrow of the years, to lightless ruins,
to flowers that die unheeded on a wayside grave.