I have been wondering <br /> What you are thinking about, and by now suppose <br /> It is certainly not me. <br /> But the crocus is up, and the lark, and the blundering <br /> Blood knows what it knows. <br />It talks to itself all night, like a sliding moonlit sea. <br /> <br /> Of course, it is talking of you. <br /> At dawn, where the ocean has netted its catch of lights, <br /> The sun plants one lithe foot <br /> On that spill of mirrors, but the blood goes worming through <br /> Its warm Arabian nights, <br />Naming your pounding name again in the dark heart-root. <br /> <br /> Who shall, of course, be nameless. <br /> Anyway, I should want you to know I have done my best, <br /> As I'm sure you have, too. <br /> Others are bound to us, the gentle and blameless <br /> Whose names are not confessed <br />In the ceaseless palaver. My dearest, the clear unquaried blue <br /> <br /> Of those depths is all but blinding. <br /> You may remember that once you brought my boys <br /> Two little woolly birds. <br /> Yesterday the older one asked for you upon finding <br /> Your thrush among his toys. <br />And the tides welled about me, and I could find no words. <br /> <br /> There is not much else to tell. <br /> One tries one's best to continue as before, <br /> Doing some little good. <br /> But I would have you know that all is not well <br /> With a man dead set to ignore <br />The endless repetitions of his own murmurous blood.<br /><br />Anthony Evan Hecht<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-letter/
