You are not chattable.
On the very lips of the memory I have of you—
Which is now a pastiche to be certain,
What time has rent I have patched back up:
An ear of an acquaintance, the deep-set
Brows of a lesser flame,
Easy lips, the construction of a buxom actress
I don’t much care for,
Colored in a way I think flatters you;
All that’s really real are the eyes
Uncounterfeitable,
What no ravage could hope to efface,
The cosmos one lives in the smallest corner of
Suffused so full with their grace it’s a fooling
Facsimile of God—
you say you haven‘t time to talk,
you’ve been very busy of late.
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