for Jessica Bennett
Plush hills, the raw materials, fall away.
The soaking clay
In which the serried oaks, the picturesque
And swaybacked pines, elected to evolve,
The famous marble in its bare reserve,
Vanish like guesses in these verticals
Whose heft at dusk
Blurs rooks to ridges, veils the bicycles
And splashes where they lean hard into curves.
Looming like crowds, such weather makes its world;
Its crash and draft and spate and uniform
Consonant force confirm
Or mean-not that without you there are no
Attainments I can care for or call good-
But that among them, missing you, I know
How much delight, green need
And weird vivacious luck drew me to you:
Luck lasts with us. Out here I can believe
That all companionships only rehearse
Or faintly copy ours, and make it plain-
As over the plain inn, the plain roof clears-
That granite, marble, nascent evening stars
And that impressive dinner bell, the moon,
Still seem-may seem, to me, forever-yours,
A portraitist's surround to set you off
For admiration and comparison.
In light you spare, unevenly, they shine
To give such thought, your thought, occasion,
Triangulate, and show me where you are.
I'm not with you. I will be with you soon.
