[To Sheila Lanyon, on the Flyleaf of a Book]

Sheila, we speak here on the fly Leaf of a book which was myself A good few graves ago. Now I am maintained by other Words for better or for worse To whisper my hello. The seasons turn. Threshold on thresh Hold forms continually and falls Under grief’s lonely hammer. What did you say? I thought between These fly leaf words I heard you speak Out of your Second Summer. The summer chimes and turns its blue Dragon-flying eyes to see We two are not afraid. Hello, Sheila, I can hear Your breath on the other side of the word And see you turn your head.