All the same I loved you
                                    loved you
                                                   loved you.
And this doesn’t pass, just settles to the bottom . . .
I broke you in myself like a precious carafe,
And my soul like a white tablecloth was stained by the bitter wine!
You gave color to my thoughts, body to my images,
Yourself now merely noise, like the sea in a shell’s ear . . .
As for how it all was, God! whose concern is that?
What matters is how it will be.
And that will be the way I’ll write it.