Memory, with heartsluck dripping at the root.
The paths lead back through time
that doubted woods is there
and the tree with the carving,
and a vulture sitting on the highest branch. . .
The sepulchre of the heart's desire
ruled by the dumbfound scepter of loss.
Now all is far and hidden from your sight.
Turn dimly, abashed,
and scrape the emptying yards of withdrawal
with your slackening ken.