Thinking of you, as all my nights are spent,
and my days too—although not consciously,
but rather as the lightest rain will find
whatever routes may trace its element
slowly downhill, and finally to sea;
thinking of you, in a calm state of mind,
no longer desolate—in fact, inclined
to hum while dicing onions—absently
I turn to you, old friend and only lover,
confused over your absence, like a bee
whose shallow habit or lifelong intent
draws it where nectar was, to buzz and hover;
thinking of you, all day I rediscover
myself still here, wondering where you went.
Read an interview with the poet.