In the confining hour, in the revealing place,
come the heart's glottal stop, come the month's restless face.
On the resistant deck, on the consoling floor,
there lies a meadowed plain, there a forgotten war.
If there are bills unpaid, if there are fates unmet,
send for the butcher's price, send for true love's regret.
Blow the wind from the north, blow the rain from the south,
pay for the marble kiss, pay for the proxy mouth.
For the confirming rod, for the concealing dress,
bring on the shadow's bloom, bring on the false caress.
By William Logan