Love is a person. When we cannot love,
there is always a person to blame.
Thomas, for instance, who thought less of you than fame.
Love is a person—the ears, small. With a simple inherited name.
Love’s not your psychology. Not the complex world and its mess.
Love’s a person. Who lives at a certain address.
Look at them, who died fanatically, in unison.
The orders came from a person.
W.H. Auden walked in the shade
under the trees William Shakespeare made.
Mr. Graves is visiting Mr. Poem now—
Poem. (He loved you but you didn’t know how.)
Leaving behind the gods (Love was a lesser one),
they replaced the gods with One (who became three).
There are persons who think religion is nonsense—
I saw this in my friends’ poetry,
but none of them regard themselves as gods.
That will take some evolving—from gods to God
and back to gods, but, this time, you
will be the god—
and run in the sunshine of the mountains.
I remember who you were: less afraid
to die than I was. It was hot even in the shade.
I was high in the mountains, following you.
But I was afraid.