Weeding the garden, Clayfeld sprained his finger
     pulling out a stubborn root,
and had to have his wedding ring cut off

Created for whose sake? The praying
Mantis eats its mate. Hatched,
Two hundred or more eggs scramble 

Lighthouse. Sand shadows. Burn of brandy.
A candlestick, black, 
She sent with no note for his birthday. 

What can she tell him now, now that the hour
Is vanished from the room, the furniture 
Flat without freshness, flat without power

“So many unlived lives,” she said; and idle 
As gulls in their sleepy drift, a hot and somber 
Autumn day in umber, we talked of things 

Much time is gone, I speak of parting fire
Like realms of sunset in the mist of trees.
Because you know affection not desire