I had loved him once, and followed, Entranced, the tracing motions hollow His convex verse commands. I was the eye, he the hand. And long we wandered, light and dark, Tracing shadows' ink, light's absent paper mark. I thought perhaps to see myself reflected, Referenced, imagined or enhanced, Some wrinkle in the mirror, some pout, some expression, Visual evidence of individual digression, Or even a ripple of author self-romanced-- A dreamer's words the dream utters by chance. Where love's hand had led, I had not doubted. (Outward I looked, but no one looked out.) Instead, only one cold eye I espied, Chill olive in the burning body damned. Only that, without a passion or a clue, Note sequenced to note with no melody for cue. No central concern, nor thought of any sort, No socket to accept the wandering ship to port. Not, even, the bark of a doggerel, Nor evening's cage for an argument's grr.