When, after all, you realize you loved—
As best as you could love,
Saw—as best as you could see,
Were—as nice as you could be,
Under the circumstances, the best,
Even sadly, even at rest,
The beautiful day dying,
The unfinished philosophy crying,
But Aristotle was right all along,
And the myths, and the song
And the fixed stars, not exactly right,
But not wrong, the calculations
You made, interminably—
The sad truths remaining out of sight—
Eyes easily closed, next to the lisping sea,
Considering the warlike nations,
And yours, the small island, with species
Preyed upon by domestic cats—
Who purred, but killed, just like that.
Your island alive to the healthy look of the sun,
When nature’s young beauty, almost done,
Gave to adolescence, fit to adore,
A delicate beauty, and even more,
The strict honor among men,
Good, again and again,
Allowing women and girls to go freely about,
Making them beautiful under the sun beyond a doubt,
Being free. They were free.
So, statistically,
There was far less homosexuality.
Love made a delicate sound
On your small island, and one bird
Flew up, far, and around
When you said the right word.