Losing is without hurt now,
a loosening, not to cold Western winds
that ply her body, bend
her head until she perseveres, bowed, —
a warm grief, loosening the ties
that tug and wrench my frame,
a rush that makes her body the same
after heartache’s loss.
Long did she lie beside me,
sleep a trick credulity taught
her, and now, on least distraught
mornings I think I see.
Long have we blown apart
with only my tremors to remind me
that a western wind blows over her sea
far from where she clings to my heart.
Long did she long in my heart,
and my heart, my heart only longed in reply,
seeking that contradiction, that to die
is never to part.
The longing was not she, nor me,
but a wild wind of telegraph wires.
My heart where she smiles asks no colder fires
than her warm breath in the grief that is she.