I believe, but what is belief?
I receive the forbidden dead.
They appear in the mirrors of asleep
To accuse or be comforted.
All the selves of myself they keep,
From a bodiless time arrive,
Retaining in face and shape
Shifting lineaments of alive.
So whatever it is you are,
Dear Anne, bent smilingly grave
Over wine glasses filled by your fire,
Is the whole of your life you gave
To our fictions of what you were.
Not a shadow of you can save
These logs that crackle with light,
Or this smoky image I have—
Your face at the foot of a flight
Of wrought-iron circular stairs.
I am climbing alone in the night
Among stabbing, unmerciful flares.
Oh, I am what I see and know,
But no other solid thing's there
Except for the terrible glow
Of your face and its quiet belief,
Light wood ash falling like snow
On my weaker grief.
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