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515
I have mislaid my mustache
that merry mauve keeper of my
large insistence
its color makes me sad
my partly affected face
is now confused
now, here, a horn where once you grew
my hard eyes quickly miss
the light
or is it just the memory of such?
516
the angle of my life
is a faithful drop forgotten
its exhausted desire now ends in domination
its enormous skin expires
at the door of self-same slumber
clutching an abandoned letter of regulation
explains our power tapping of recognition
of all those eyes before we knew them
we have met before, our fate a
twinge of probable being
is it all the same or
are we simply dreaming?
*Elizabeth Bishop
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