Pibroch But now that I am used to pain, Its knuckles in my mouth the same Today as yesterday, the cause As clear-obscure as who''s to blame, A fascination with the flaws Sets in-the plundered heart, the pause Between those earnest, oversold Liberties that took like laws. What should have been I never told, Afraid of outbursts you''d withhold. Why are desires something to share? I''m shivering, though it isn''t cold. Beneath your window, I stand and stare. The planets turn. The trees are bare. I''ll toss a pebble at the pane, But softly, knowing you are not there. Glanum at the ruins of a provincial Roman town So this is the city of love.

I lean on a rail above Its ruined streets and square Still wondering how to care For a studiously unbuilt site Now walled and roofed with light. A glider''s wing overhead Eclipses the Nike treads On a path once freshly swept Where trader and merchant kept A guarded company. As far as the eye can see The pampered gods had blessed The temples, the gates, the harvest, The baths and sacred spring, Sistrum, beacon, bowstring. Each man remembered his visit To the capital''s exquisite Libraries or whores. The women gossiped more About the one-legged crow Found in a portico Of the forum, an omen That sluggish priests again Insisted required prayer. A son''s corpse elsewhere Was wrapped in a linen shroud. A distant thundercloud Mimicked a slumping pine That tendrils of grape entwined. Someone kicked a dog.

The orator''s catalogue Prompted worried nods Over issues soon forgot. A cock turned on a spit. A slave felt homesick. The underclass of scribes Was saved from envy by pride. The always invisible legion Fought what it would become. We call it ordinary Life--banal, wary, Able to withdraw From chaos or the law, Intent on the body''s tides And the mysteries disguised At the bedside or the hearth, Where all things come apart. There must have been a point-- While stone to stone was joined, All expectation and sweat, The cautious haste of the outset-- When the city being built, In its chalky thrust and tilt, Resembled just for a day What''s now a labeled display, These relics of the past, A history recast As remarkable rubble, Broken column, muddled Inscription back when Only half up, half done. Now only the ruins are left, A wall some bricks suggest, A doorway into nothing, Last year''s scaffolding.

By design the eye is drawn To something undergone. A single carving remains The plunder never claimed, And no memories of guilt Can wear upon or thrill This scarred relief of a man And woman whom love will strand, Their faces worn away, Their heartache underplayed, Just turning as if to find Something to put behind Them, an emptiness Of uncarved rock, an excess Of sharp corrosive doubt. Now everything''s left out To rain and wind and star, Nature''s repertoire Of indifference or gloom. This French blue afternoon, For instance, how easily The light falls on debris, How calmly the valley awaits Whatever tonight frustrates, How quickly the small creatures Scurry from the sunlight''s slur, How closely it all comes to seem Like details on the table between Us at dinner yesterday, Our slab of sandstone laid With emblems for a meal. Knife and fork. A deal. Thistle-prick. Hollow bone.

The olive''s flesh and stone. From the Hardcover edition.