Close to the building there,
the lad with the grey-caught mask of a face
unplaited a lady’s shadow of hair
as if wound up for a nothing-grace,
whispered a worldless space
to the mindless air.
Infinity had never been held
in the convolutions of trinket-care
he neither voiced, nor noted,
nor could have spelt,
close to the building there
with the sea’s back as uncoated
as his own. At last
he lay by the whole wild seed-sown
meadow he neither knew nor nerved.
His breath was as broken as the lady’s
shadow of hair and the tone
of the sea beyond, strumming a thimble-pond.
(from “”Love” Poems For Kathy / Green. Laced. Leaves”)