So this is what it is like then, no
ceaseless flame or trumpet crescendo,
not a rose of such a hue or a lingering glance
or wondrous thought.
Even less some grand expanse: the air, the sky —
I think not.
Marks the palms and cuts the wrists
when you carry it, as it twists
round and round in the wind. Yes, this is
like my love, with no shame and no graces
and in places here and there
But what can’t it bear? It bends to serve, and
in a pinch grows larger than we deserve.
For me and for you, this love, I think
it will do. This sorry, crumpled sack not what I chose,
yet takes one thousand years to decompose