i: Lock-out

No shuttle in the secret mill is moving; on his banished hill the mole is crucified and still. In the strait fevers of the bed, truly wed or priestly wed, care and its comforter are dead. Left hand erases right's intent; neither knows where this year went; no season calendered but Lent. Thought and finger dip too deep: weep then alone, or dreaming weep, when the only joy is sleep.

ii: Voyage à Cythère

The last hotel is closing, the sun goes in for good; rain on the empty beaches, mould on the foreign food: back to the gate and curtains, the pub along the road. She carries little with her but currency of time: write out the passport-poem (why are your fingers numb?) and launch her on her journey to love, the long way home. Aboard, lost now already, soon for the misting seas she stands; but not her shadow: long on the quay it lies. Kneel then to lay like pennies your kisses on its eyes.