THE VISITOR

The heavy evenings fester with the lark.
I cannot go where we have gone before,
Not to the hollows of the hugging park,
Contagious shade, nor to the gilded shore
Flyblown with lovers and the skeletons
Of brown gymnastic lovers; and I crave
You : higgledy-piggledy on the brittle waves
Bounce the amber rascals of the sun.
I cannot go where lunar meadows lie
In all the clover-motions of your skin,
Nor to cyanic hills where we have been
Among the laurel in the great sunrise.
Sometimes you are a skinless visitor,
And I will go where you have gone before.