‘…he could not get rid of the tendency to reconstruct the “Ange” who was daily broken into fragments…’ —
Italo Svevo, Senility
As I wrap your photograph
with its expensive frame
back into the crêpe
and then the paper
deciding that I cannot
go through this again
the stupid vertigo
at the merest sign of life
the stain in the mind’s eye
that tarnishes the rest
the dreary barren ache
of the unrequited
— hoping to nip
that nonsense in the bud
I find nevertheless
my lips pressed to the paper
in the region I suppose of your heart
thereby re-inventing
an orthodox gesture,
the kissing of the Icon
which even as I wrap, and hide away
(and had I the strength
that I would shatter)
reconstructs and will not die.
