25 Upon your pliant wax of languor, Behind the shadows of your smoke, I saw your fire, swift in its glamour, And burnt my fingers in your glow. Your wax was changing shapes and traces Of man and woman and a child. Your fire would mix them all -- erasing. Now I don't see you with my eyes. My shadows left me for your shadows. My shapes are molded from your shapes. With fingers burnt and eyesight failing, I can't forget and can't escape.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems