The train is riding, rocking gently While it takes me to Bordeaux. Outside, the grasses slowly grow Beneath the mute age of each bent tree. The swelter’s melting into glue
The storm is past. Perhaps it was Too brief. The cloud that belts the forehead Of the eagle by the shore, said To be bird of Zeus, has Become an urn of sleep; it pours
You before all others I Am loving with the silence of The secret hands which hold the dove. My bells stand still before the sky; I draw a single letter in The gravel on your path of choice:
It’s true, I am a mess in certain ways, Unstable in my tides of joy and grief, But I am satisfied in the belief I own the grain to feed the mill of days.
I want to know whose war it is That I have fought without a bruise, Without a sound, without the news Of where the breach or the defeat is, I want to hear the name, the cause