The light lay in shreds across the bed, only your waking could make it whole; resuming its costume of day, its role which seems to overnight get ragged

Fate latent as weights in theater curtainhems, what soul is sewn here to be rung down at last, divested of these disguises. But if we are

bared by such cloth as cries in this lament for the sun's fragility, would I dare now to shake you astir

to drape over you my shadow, whose myth-ex-machina remains all mine, mine, and therefore torn from yours