For a wrong century
Rain has been sinking into the charred rafters
That fell during the blaze, smouldering.
The house stinks,
Though this age the fire's been dead.
I huddle under burnt wood
But there's no getting away from the wet.
My sweater's soggy.
Still, there's no place for us but here-
You in your pale raincoat under the blasted pine,
Absolute out there, and patient as you need to be.
Your eyes are safe under mirror glass, involved,
As if you heard grave music
Folding like winding cloth around you.
The wet grass touches your ankles.
But the grass.
Even in dreams you deny me.