I’m not sure that all I can relate
is a true thing I’ve seen,
that the nature of it is just and true,
that what I saw was not a dream.
I’ve been sitting upon a beach
and looking upon the waves;
My eyes wonder: where? where is Her grave?
My hands wander: in sand I try to save.
Love is but a labor. I’m living in it.
I am the sand I sit in. I labored for love.
It was tragic, but I laugh—
because laughing is all I can.
Hands and hands of sand,
my body, that sand; and my eyes: sand—
sand from an hourglass
which dripped like a loose faucet.
I trifle only slightly. It was a dream.
It was vivid, and real. Slighted, so I trifle.
I was the one affronted, made fool—
by my own self, though, was this so.