To the marshes, the hills, the highest houses
Where night winds cry and toss. . .
In the night, love, does your wife lament?
Or is she at its end content,
Unwary of her loss?
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There were mornings I would not comb
My hair, because of the places
Your kisses had touched it. Time lacked, I knew:
I lived on such light traces.
Master of marshes, of the pale rimmed
Sea-border and violent gulf
Of the ocean meadows beyond, and of
My village, and myself--
The carved seagate is white with ice
And lifts for us no more;
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Penn Fires Stiegman; No Successor Named
