Your name is far and wide, and yet it was sometime,
I mean, not long ago you were a new lesion.
And now I hardly see a word before seeing
you in the place of everything I miss. Laughter

falls at your feet and leaves you standing stark naked.
What does this mean? You were a stranger five minutes
ago, and now you're wearing wreaths of cheap sonnets
upon your name. You throw them on the ground, leaving.

The only thing that's left is leaving's imagery
to fling my verses at, and sing your back's praises,
perhaps the nicest part of all of you, leastwise
all I can sing about now that you're gone, backing
daydreams with lines, tracing your nose, but not saying
your name out loud. In writing? You can forget it.

But still: in foreign words I hear your voice calling
me back, which would be better, though your back's lovely.
And every day I have to deal with trite prattle,
hand out my idle lines to all the wrong people,

and poke and puke at quiet tests of dumb verses
that don't shine even half as bright as your silence.
And so I use the back you turned on me, smiling,
as static model for my ideal constructions.

If you, prism, distort the world I live in,
I still will know your name at least, and love, tougher
even than peals of laughter far away, stiffens:
spits in the face of all attempts. A stray, strange word
is able to make me recall your face: smiling,
it won't explain and only promises sonnets.