167 To Sophia I wonder whether, like Cavafy, I will ever write to Nobody specific, without a hope of being answered Or even heard by those who are described within the twilight Of eloping memory -- who are sipped from tarnished glasses And taste like wine, but leave a hangover no one gets rid of; Those still caught alive on decaying photos; carved from limestone In old Alexandria moldering apart; imprisoned In a decomposing motif one canít recall and can't yet Forget. I wonder whether, like he did, I would be able To prolong a blinding obsession with an image of a Retrieving man -- who was too close; the deafening urge of saying Something of his voice; the hallucination of his motion.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems