A trifle pompously, my love, you move among
the mass of nerve-
tissue in my cranium:
and as you move
you have become the last
of my inconsequential ironies. At best,
chess, too, just
a question of pure chance.
A film of dust
girdles your body: for once

I shift you on the board, you will become
a solution for which
there never was a problem:
that old itch
for order, which we like to hint
exists in what we do. And yet, that blueprint
I fashioned once
for the motions of the body
ended nice-
ly in a cemetery