I dream about her in her light dark moods,
her restless anger and her choppy calm;
subtle-seeming, in a cold fit that broods . . .
roaring with stars of laughter when it’s warm.
I dream about her in her mountain-rage,
fist-swearing, crudely causing others pain,
then unvolcanic – formal, as if on stage,
lifting the frozen ridges of disdain.
And I am desperate to see her now.
O that indifference and that perfect act,
that show! I know a man cannot know how
her power is dreamlike and yet powerful fact.
Watching I dream, and dreaming, see her be
crying, sweet, glad . . . and foreign as the sea.