In frozen thought now & now it standeth in flame
I find no peace & all my war is done
—Thomas Wyatt
We had our talk at last
& for now our talk is done.
Here, dusk seeps in with rain;
limes still blush there, under sun.
I keep misspelling “there” as “their”;
a pronoun is an anywhere.
Afterwards, I wept & wept—
so many ways a body weeps from care,
which has often traveled thus
in tristesse, travail, in wonder lust.
Patio, you said, means inner court,
open to sky, that stellar thrust
toward which, untilled, I always rise.
In the other sense, too, pactum,
to agree, to trust, night here, day there,
until we, again, in glass both bright & dim,
remake again our covenant.
No facts but what love makes of them.