Untitled.
Think of the letters, which have placed you nowhere,
have given you something lonely and the restraint
of all anger, that loneliness.
At that door, the bell doesn't ring.
Sky shoves another place.
Your face, you might as well save as much as another.
I keep my face well in this letter.
The letter is a local ballad.
Today was a day of each evil, it seemed.
Think of you going away, all deadness within all given.
I have made for you a portrait half obscure, half twisted.
It is an illness, I suppose.
We all go away.