A few somber thoughts into it , the lexicon of a new headstone would rise in tomorrow’s sleep against your wishes, towards a horizon as you plod along , drag your feet in the thicket with a shovel for deep digging for scoopfuls of earth.
You cannot grow out of it now , this night. A name is a name, whatever rose you may call it. But if tomorrow ever lives you may still get out of it leaving it nameless among roses spread on it.
Lady poet would think of an arm not moving ,not gesturing, to write without a secretary by side. But she is free with the other arm to move watching the horizon, ascending and descending.
(Taking off on Louise Gluck’s poem Approach of the Horizon)