There are blanks in memory cataracts
on our eyes; the seven veils.
I no longer remember you separately
As a face but a white emptiness

without true features. All—is a
whiteness. (My spirit is one
uninterrupted wound.) The chalk of
details must belong to tailors!

The dome of heaven was built in a single frame
and oceans? are featureless a mass of
drops that cannot be distinguished. You
are unique. And love is no detective.

Let now some neighbour say whether your
hair is black or fair, for he can tell.
I leave that to physicians or watchmakers.
What passion has a use for such details?

You are a full, unbroken circle, a
whirlwind or wholly turned to stone.
I cannot think of you apart from
love. There is an equals sign.

(In heaps of sleepy down, and falls of
water, hills of foam, there is a
new sound, strange to my hearing,
instead of I a regal we)

and though life's beggared now and
narrowed into—how things are—
still I cannot see you joined to
anyone:a
revenge of memory.