I put on your lenses and, beautiful in my broken nakedness,
blind with my tears, lay back on the floor, remembering how you
stood at the open window and wiped the rain from your face with your hand,
how I did not move because I was the sad God of Beckett
and these were our days without love;
and you could not lift my eyelids and see your slashed
lashes on my retinas
because, oppressed by the beauty of my body, you fell asleep
and with our anavolias covered the rotten tamarix
united their shadows.
You were the last widower of the South
and it was not me who you loved.