167 To Sophia
I wonder whether, like Cavafy, I will ever write to
Nobody specific, without a hope of being answered
Or even heard by those who are described within the twilight
Of eloping memory -- who are sipped from tarnished glasses
And taste like wine, but leave a hangover no one gets rid of;
Those still caught alive on decaying photos; carved from limestone
In old Alexandria moldering apart; imprisoned
In a decomposing motif one can’t recall and can't yet
Forget. I wonder whether, like he did, I would be able
To prolong a blinding obsession with an image of a
Retrieving man -- who was too close; the deafening urge of saying
Something of his voice; the hallucination of his motion.
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