Vera

Vera 

     "My darling plays for no one

but himself"—staunch flow over interiors,

      reverberate like rain on a roof—

"then splits our hearts with mourning."

No grave can hobble her because "Now

     I shall dance!" Perhaps not to his

     songs nor to his headless rhythm

nor to his fingers tapping on that desk

where he's composed regiments of sound

that would've seduced Thracian women

who then cast him hence to those carp

     kissing Hebrus' pebbles, carp who'll

     nibble whatever flesh fish can find

     as he flows onto Lesbos' shores.

[sonnet]