On the Sweetness of My Enemy
Tell me that you wait. If you
would give a sign that only you were here,
translated out of sight
by sudden mirrors. Little person
full of love, you go away,
the garden with its voices speaks your name.

I did not know your name, as though
you knew me far too well for things like those,
not I of such belief. You go
and there I lose you where you stand ahead,
speechless, less than human,
then obscured.
I saw you on the rim of what I saw

Acton Burnell
History is silent, the one door
the dead can enter. They slide below
the smooth green cover, grateful at last,
...