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Imagine him dreamy, broad-shouldered,
once a wrestler with a poet's owl eyes
and so rarely laughing, by lamplight
writing star-gazer, my star and sky—
not the play of forms and abstracts
stark as shadows cast by sun within a cave,
but the gravity of hand answering hand,
a scroll of Aischylos, a kylix filled again,
a face, long fallen into dust, heaven-tilted
to watch a comet passing, lost and bright.