She had beautiful eyes and sat there, under the cypress.
It was evening and the bees played on the warm air
around her, carried by summer towards me.
In time, it was evening (also) and we witnessed
a coming in and a going out: Miranda, honoured.
At once, a foal walked unsteadily across,
sank to the ground-it was our meeting place,
the earth formed roughly but well.
I was her light, you know-in childhood, leapt forward
like a giant nearly swallowing her with laughter.
Afterwards, listened to you play music at a window,
keeping me still as the rain fell in two parts
that were recorded. In each was strength,
making me remember her name when we tired-
over a memory that was brown and soft,
in a tomb that could not speak of this.
