Every lamp that approves its foot
shyly reminds of how Ellen stood.
Every bowl, every shadow that leans forth,
hunts vaguely for the pattern by her door.
One summer, I remember, a giant beautiful cloud
that stood beyond the hill where Ellen lived.
It has been years, and we hardly looked back;
now, except for times like this, we hardly ever look.
There may be losses too great to understand
that rove after you and—faint and terrible
rip unknown through your hand.
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