Since we agreed to let the road between us Fall to disuse, And bricked our gates up, planted trees to screen us, And turned all time's eroding agents loose, Silence, and space, and strangers - our neglect Has not had much effect.

Leaves drift unswept, perhaps; grass creeps unmown; No other change. So clear it stands, so little overgrown, Walking that way tonight would not seem strange, And still would be followed. A little longer, And time would be the stronger,

Drafting a world where no such road will run From you to me; To watch that world come up like a cold sun, Rewarding others, is my liberty. Not to prevent it is my will's fulfillment. Willing it, my ailment.

After having loved we lie close together and at the same time with distance between us like two sailing ships that enjoy so intensely their own lines in the dark water they divide that their hulls are almost splitting from sheer delight while racing, out in the blue under sails which the night wind fills with flowerscented air and moonlight

• without one of them ever trying to outsail the other and without the distance between them lessening or growing at all.

But there are other nights, where we drift like two brightly illuminated luxury liners lying side by side with the engines shut off, under a strange constellation and without a single passenger on board: On each deck a violin orchestra is playing in honor of the luminous waves. And the sea is full of old tired ships which we have sunk in our attempt to reach each other.

Having used every subterfuge To shake you, lies, fatigue, or even that of passion, Now I see no way but a clean break. I add that I am willing to bear the guilt.

You nod assent. Autumn turns windy, huge, A clear vase of dry leaves vibrating on and on. We sit, watching. When I next speak Love buries itself in me, up to the hilt.