Ariadne in Verona             
                  

To wander the ruined amphitheater
with a taste of tar in her mouth.
To sleep in a vacant square
as her marble bed grows softer.

To wake in a babble of hailstones
with unrelenting comraderie—with weariness.
To share at noon the anxious watch
of statues in a deserted garden.

To lift her arms because grief is spacious—
a plunge through the satins of Naxos!
To mark and slit the rustling bolts
into falling down days.

To sit alone and smoke until she finds
a pattern in the maze of myrtle
through which his restless body
drifts like a sleepwalker.