These clothing bushes
Where to buy the living others live,
those two for instance high on
the hilltop of each other
who, as I count, return forty times
to the grassy dinner table
and eat, and eat, and feast with me
if only vicariously.
Must I stoop again and have only
the pixie on my back for company,
or, howling and bent like them,
may I retreat into the retreat
they sink each other’s heads into?
Will my friend the falling wind
fall on me, like he falls on her,
and dip its nose in my reef
throwing at me a pearl it found
on the finger of a woman in a mound?
He kneels as the gargoyles plea
from his back to ask her death mask
if it will rust as she turns to dust,
if he will love her still
or introduce him like me to being lonely?
Mere Habit 