Love After Love all your life, whom you have ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

The classics can console. But not enough.

We read, we travel, we become.

She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.

What are men? Children who doubt.

I know when dark-haired evening put on her bright silk at sunset, and, folding the sea sidled under the sheet with her starry laugh, that there'd be no rest, there'd be no forgetting. Is like telling mourners round the graveside about resurrection, they want the dead back.

The voice does go up in a poem. It is an address, even if it is to oneself.