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.